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M. E.
McMILLAN
WHAT’S REALLY GOING ON

IN THE MIDDLE EAST?
MET
Middle East
Today
Praise for From the First World War to the Arab Spring:
What’s Really Going On in the Middle East?
“The significance of this book lies in its contextualization of the Arab Spring
uprisings and the legacies of the First World War, as well as in its analysis of how
these large-scale ruptures have shaken the modern Middle Eastern state system
to its foundation.”
—Fawaz A. Gerges, Emirates Chair of Contemporary Middle Eastern
Studies, London School of Economics and Political Science, UK, and
author of Contentious Politics in the Middle East
“M. E. McMillan successfully throws light on why the disasters that engulf the
Middle East grow worse by the day. She does this in a series of brief, stimulating
essays that challenge the reader to think hard about the topics she discusses. She
clearly cares deeply about the area’s problems, and those reading the book will be
enlightened and will finish up sharing her cares. Well worth a close read!”
—Alan Jones, Emeritus Professor of Classical Arabic,
University of Oxford, UK
“Sweeping in scope and meticulous in coverage, From the First World War to
the Arab Spring: What’s Really Going On in the Middle East? is essential read-
ing for anyone seeking an in-depth understanding of the historical evolution of
the modern Middle East. Wonderfully written, M. E. McMillan captures the full
magnitude of the social, political, and economic forces that have transformed
the Arab world and redefined its position within the global order. McMillan has
produced a work of exceptional lucidity that scholars, students, and policymak-
ers alike will consult for years to come.”
—Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, Fellow of the Middle East, Baker
Institute at Rice University, USA, and author of The Gulf
States in International Political Economy
“M. E. McMillan’s timely book From the First World War to the Arab Spring:
What’s Really Going On in the Middle East? judiciously puts the current creative
crisis in the region in a necessary historical context, pulling us back to the inau-
gural year of 1914 when the continued legacy of European imperialism was yield-
ing to the rising global American power and the transition framing the eventual
formation of postcolonial nation-states that seem to be crumbling right in front
of our eyes today. More critical and informed studies like McMillan’s are much
needed if the cascade of the daily news is not to dull the edge of our critical think-
ing ahead in an increasingly tumultuous and yet ultimately liberating historical
moment.”
—Hamid Dabashi, Hagop Kevorkian Professor of Iranian
Studies and Comparative Literature, Columbia University,
USA, and author of Being a Muslim in the World
“To begin understanding why the Middle East is falling apart today, read
M. E. McMillan’s beautifully written and admirably succinct book From the First
World War to the Arab Spring: What’s Really Going On in the Middle East? She
unravels with verve the clash of empires that preceded the violent dismantling
of the Ottoman Empire during World War I. But most importantly, she ana-
lyzes with clarity the contradictory principles and conflicting interests that were
embedded in the new Middle East. Not only were borders drawn haphazardly at
war’s end, but also the Great Powers insisted that Middle Eastern peoples take on
new identities. Enlightenment concepts such as nationalism, constitutionalism,
and separation of church and state were imposed at the point of a gun. Today, that
order is in shambles, despite—or perhaps because of—multiple interventions.
McMillan is a wonderful guide. I will be assigning it to my students.”
—Joshua Landis, Director of the Center for Middle Eastern Studies
and Associate Professor at the College of International Relations,
University of Oklahoma, USA
“A lively and engaging book that sheds great clarity on a century of Middle
Eastern conflict.”
—Eugene Rogan, Associate Professor of the Modern History of the Middle
East and Director of the Middle East Centre, St Antony’s College,
University of Oxford, UK, and author of The Arabs: A History
and The Fall of the Ottomans: The Great War in the Middle East
Middle East Today
Seriese ditors:
Fawaz A. Gerges
Professor of International Relations
Emirates Chair of the Modern Middle East
Department of International Relations
London School of Economics
Nader Hashemi
Director, Center for Middle East Studies
Associate Professor of Middle East and Islamic Politics
Josef Korbel School of International Studies
University of Denver
The Iranian Revolution of 1979, the Iran-Iraq War, the Gulf War, and the US
invasion and occupation of Iraq have dramatically altered the geopolitical land-
scape of the contemporary Middle East. The Arab Spring uprisings have compli-
cated this picture. This series puts forward a critical body of first-rate scholarship
that reflects the current political and social realities of the region, focusing on
original research about contentious politics and social movements; political
institutions; the role played by nongovernmental organizations such as Hamas,
Hezbollah, and the Muslim Brotherhood; and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
Other themes of interest include Iran and Turkey as emerging preeminent pow-
ers in the region, the former an “Islamic Republic” and the latter an emerging
democracy currently governed by a party with Islamic roots; the Gulf monar-
chies, their petrol economies and regional ambitions; potential problems of
nuclear proliferation in the region; and the challenges confronting the United
States, Europe, and the United Nations in the greater Middle East. The focus of
the series is on general topics such as social turmoil, war and revolution, interna-
tional relations, occupation, radicalism, democracy, human rights, and Islam as
a political force in the context of the modern Middle East.
Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran

Kingshuk Chatterjee
Religion and the State in Turkish Universities: The Headscarf Ban
Fatma Nevra Seggie
Turkish Foreign Policy: Islam, Nationalism, and Globalization
Hasan Kösebalaban
Nonviolent Resistance in the Second Intifada: Activism and Advocacy
Edited by Maia Carter Hallward and Julie M. Norman
The Constitutional System of Turkey: 1876 to the Present
Ergun Özbudun
Islam, the State, and Political Authority: Medieval Issues and Modern Concerns
Edited by Asma Afsaruddin
Bahrain from the Twentieth Century to the Arab Spring
Miriam Joyce
Palestinian Activism in Israel: A Bedouin Woman Leader in a Changing Middle East
Henriette Dahan-Kalev and Emilie Le Febvre with Amal El’Sana-Alh’jooj
Egypt Awakening in the Early Twentieth Century: Mayy Ziyadah’s Intellectual Circles
Boutheina Khaldi
The Social and Economic Origins of Monarchy in Jordan
Tariq Moraiwed Tell
Palestinians in the Israeli Labor Market: A Multi-disciplinary Approach
Edited by Nabil Khattab and Sami Miaari
State, Religion, and Revolution in Iran, 1796 to the Present
Behrooz Moazami
Political Islam in the Age of Democratization
Kamran Bokhari and Farid Senzai
The Role of Ideology in Syrian-US Relations: Conflict and Cooperation
J. K. Gani
“Dual Containment” Policy in the Persian Gulf: The USA, Iran, and Iraq, 1991–2000
Alex Edwards
Hezbollah, Islamist Politics, and International Society
Filippo Dionigi
Sold Out? US Foreign Policy, Iraq, the Kurds, and the Cold War
Bryan R. Gibson
Jimmy Carter and the Middle East: The Politics of Presidential Diplomacy
Daniel Strieff
Contentious Politics in the Middle East: Popular Resistance and Marginalized
Activism beyond the Arab Uprisings
Edited by Fawaz A. Gerges
From the First World War to the Arab Spring: What’s Really Going On in the
Middle East?
M. E. McMillan
From the First World War
to the Arab Spring
What’s Really Going On
in the Middle East?
M. E. McMillan
FROM THE FIRST WORLD WAR TO THE ARAB SPRING
Copyright © M. E. McMillan 2016
Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 2016 978-1-137-522-1-6
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this
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Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
First published 2016 by
PALGRAVE MACMILLAN
The author has asserted their right to be identified as the author of this
work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers
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Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of Nature America, Inc., One
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ISBN: 978–1–137–52204–7
E-PDF ISBN: 978–1–137–52202–3
DOI: 10.1057/9781137522023
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Macmillan®, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in
England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke,
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McMillan, M. E., author.
From the First World War to the Arab Spring : what’s really going on
in the Middle East? / M.E. McMillan.
pages cm.—(Middle East today)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978–1–137–52204–7 (paperback)
1. Middle East—History—20th century. 2. Middle East—History—
21st century. 3. Middle East—Politics and government—20th century.
4. Middle East—Politics and government—21st century. 5. Political
culture—Middle East. I. Title.
DS62.8.M46 2015
956.04—dc23 2015018133
A catalogue record for the book is available from the British Library.
For my late grandfather William (Bill) Milford
And for my great friend Rosie Cleary
Contents
Acknowledgments xi
Note on Conventions xiii
Introduction Lost in the Labyrinth: What’s Really Going

On in the Middle East? 1
Part I The Tangled Web: Why the Great Powers

of Europe Became Involved in the Middle East
1 Sarajevo: Sunday, June 28, 1914 9
2 The British Empire and the Arab World: Ambition, Austerity,
and a Class Apart 15
3 The French Empire and the Arab World: From the
Crusades to the Civilizing Mission 25
4 The Russian Empire and the Arab World: Religion,
Royalty, and the New Rome 39
5 The German Empire and the Arab World: Family Feuds
and Eastern Ambitions 47
6 The Ottoman Empire: How the Arab World Was
Won and Lost 55
Part II Too Many Straight Lines on the Map: Where,

When, and Why It Started to Go Wrong
7 London: Tuesday, December 21, 1915 69
8 The Arab World before the War: The Facts on the Ground 77
9 The Remaking of the Middle East: Enter the Nation-State 89
x CONTENTS
10 From Sykes-Picot to the Treaty of Sèvres: Betrayals,

Backstabbing, and Broken Promises 93
11 The Poisoned Legacy and the War’s Unanswered Questions 101
Part III All or Nothing: Why All Roads

Lead to Jerusalem
12 Where to Begin? 109
13 Jerusalem: The Temple Mount 113
14 Jerusalem: The Noble Sanctuary 129
Part IV Kings, Colonels, and Coups: Why There

Is a Democratic Deficit in the Arab World
15 Cairo: Wednesday, July 23, 1952 147
16 The Kings, the Colonels, and the Political Time Warp:
The Return of the Middle Ages 153
17 I Am the State: Power, Politics, and the Cult of Personality 167
18 The Problem of Absolute Power: From Stability to Stagnation 185
Part V The Sacred Versus the Secular:

Who Speaks for Islam?
19 Mecca: Tuesday, November 20, 1979 195
20 1979: The View from Tehran 201
21 1979: Holy War and Unholy Alliances 213
22 The Arab Spring and the Democratic Alternative 221
Epilogue Untangling the Web: What Now? 235
Notes 237
Select Bibliography 249
Index 259
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank everyone who helped me to see this through.

Special thanks to my parents; to Yaron and Dayse (without whom I
could never have understood certain aspects of the Middle East), Anna
Maria, Leah, Natalia, and, as ever, massive thanks to Lee.
I have been very lucky with the people who have taught me over the
years: to Professor Jeremy Johns, thank you for teaching me stuff I can
still remember 20 years on (who knew the amsar would figure in a book
like this?!) and for changing the way I look at the world. To Professor Alan
Jones, thank you for being the greatest mentor ever. And to the still-very-
much-missed Dr. Elizabeth A. M. Warburton, thank you for giving me
the chance and for so much else.
A big thank you to the fantastic team at Palgrave Macmillan for all
the help and support: Veronica Goldstein, Sara Doskow, Erin Ivy, and
especially Alisa Pulver for going above and beyond the call of duty on
this project, and Dr. Farideh Koohi-Kamali for making it happen in the
first place. I would also like to thank the anonymous reviewer for his very
helpful comments and for giving this project the green light. Thanks, too,
to the Newgen team including copy editor Pradeep Kumar for doing such
a wonderful job with the text.
Along with Palgrave Macmillan, I would also like to thank the trustees
of the E. J. W. Gibb Memorial Trust and acknowledge the material derived
from Professor Alan Jones’s English translation of the Quran, published
by the E. J. W. Gibb Memorial Trust and reproduced here with the kind
permission of the trustees.
Finally, thanks to my great friend Rosie Cleary for her words of wis-
dom; and to my late grandfather William (Bill) Milford for seeing me on
my way. This one is for you.
All errors are my own.
Note on Conventions
E very effort has been made to make Arabic names as easy as possible
to read. Names have not been transliterated according to academic
convention but simplified for the general reader. This might horrify pur-
ists, but it will hopefully make it easier for anyone approaching this sub-
ject for the first time.
For the same reason, place names have been simplified throughout.
The nation-states of the Middle East are relatively recent creations, and as
this text also deals with the period before they were created, in order not
to burden it with various names for the same place, phrases like “modern-
day Jordan” are used rather than the historic names.
Abbreviated references are given in the notes. These include the
author’s name, book title, and page number. Full references including
year and name and location of publisher are given in the Bibliography.
Introduction
Lost in the Labyrinth:

What’s Really Going On in
the Middle East?
I f you have been following recent events in the Middle East and you
are confused by the tangled web of wars and proxy wars, sectar-
ian splits, revolutions, and counter-revolutions that are convulsing the
region, do not worry. You are not alone. Policy makers, prime min-
isters, and presidents alike have been wrong-footed by the dizzying
speed of change as the old order in the Arab world collapses and a new
one fights its way into existence. The post–Arab Spring Middle East is
rife with contradictions, inconsistencies, and the kind of complications
that make your head spin. Finding your way through this labyrinth is
no easy task.
Take Syria, for example. What began with a group of teenage school-
boys scribbling graffiti in Deraa calling for the overthrow of the dictator
in Damascus has escalated into a catastrophic civil war with consequences
far beyond Syria. Syria started off fighting one war—the people versus
the unelected president—and is now fighting more than half a dozen.
Damascus, the city that once ruled the Arab world, has become the stage
for just about every power struggle in the region. Democracy versus dicta-
torship. Sunni versus Shi‘i (which really means Saudi Arabia versus Iran).
Militants versus moderates. The sacred versus the secular. Arab versus
Arab (which really means Saudi Arabia versus Qatar). Even East versus
West, as old and supposedly forgotten Cold War rivalries resurface with a
new, twenty-first-century twist.
Then, to complicate things further, militants started fighting each
other. And their fighting did not stop with them. The rise of the Islamic
State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL—rebranded as the Islamic State in the
summer of 2014) pulled yet another group into the vortex of violence: the
2 FROM THE FIRST WORLD WAR TO THE ARAB SPRING
Kurds. Without a state of their own, the Kurds are caught in the crossfire
of other people’s wars. When ISIL attacked Kurdish villages on Syria’s
northern border and in Iraq, the Kurds fought back and a whole new front
opened up. ISIL, for their part, extended their reach beyond the battle-
fields of the Middle East. Lone wolf attacks and assassinations of soft
targets in Western cities—attacks that are deliberately designed to draw
a Western military response—opened up yet another front in this seem-
ingly endless war.
All of these competing camps fight it out daily in the streets and
squares of Syria, while the Syrians are left to fend for themselves, aban-
doned and betrayed by an international community that has utterly failed
to stop the slaughter.
And even if Syrians do manage to escape the carnage, they are still not
safe. The refugee camps are not always places of refuge. All sorts of horror
stories have emerged about wealthy men from the Gulf “buying” teen-
age brides from the camps. In desperation to help their destitute families,
these girls are prepared to marry men they have never met: men who
often turn out to be three or four times their age and who cast them off
as soon as they become pregnant. But with essentials like food in such
short supply (the World Food Program fears its supplies are about to run
out), desperation has become a daily reality for hundreds of thousands of
Syrian families whose lives have been devastated by the war.
The chaos and contradictions of the new Middle East are not limited
to Syria. At the gateway to the Persian Gulf sits the tiny island kingdom
of Bahrain. Bahrain means “two seas,” and the country’s strategic posi-
tion on the Strait of Hormuz has long made it the envy of empires—be it
the Portuguese or the Ottoman Empire in the medieval era or the British
and American in the modern era. Bahrain’s geopolitical position has for
centuries given it a priority in international affairs far beyond its size and
strength. Over one-fifth of the world’s crude oil passes through the Strait
of Hormuz. Little wonder, then, that the US Navy’s Fifth Fleet is based in
the kingdom to protect that supply route. The oil-dependent global econ-
omy cannot survive without that oil and the leading industrial nations
will do whatever needs to be done to safeguard it.
In February 2011, the kingdom was rocked by the Arab Spring.
The people of Bahrain had had enough of the Khalifa family that had
been in power without plebiscite since 1783. People took to the streets in
peaceful protest calling for a democratic change.
They did not get it.
On March 14, 2011, over a thousand Saudi soldiers along with five
hundred from the United Arab Emirates arrived in Bahrain to save the
Bahraini king from his own people. The Saudi ruling family, which had
LOST IN THE LABYRINTH 3
so much to say about the rights of Syrians to determine their future, had
nothing at all to say about the rights of Bahrainis to determine theirs. The
crackdown that followed was as swift as it was bloody. Protestors were
mowed down as they slept in their tented city at Pearl Roundabout in
the nation’s capital, Manama. Even hospitals were not immune from the
crackdown. Doctors treating the wounded were arrested and given hefty
prison sentences.
All of which left the Western allies of Bahrain in a difficult position.
As democracies, the countries of the West publicly welcomed the Arab
Spring. They said they wanted to see democracy in the region. As proof
of their good intentions, they initiated military action against one of the
region’s worst dictators. At the time of the Saudi-UAE intervention in
Bahrain, the United States, the United Kingdom, and France were franti-
cally tabling a motion in the UN Security Council to protect the people
of Libya from Gaddafi’s dictatorship. That motion, UN Security Council
Resolution 1973, was passed just days after the crackdown started in
Bahrain. Almost overnight, NATO jets were in action in Libya attacking
regime positions.
In light of the support Western countries gave to the people of Libya in
their fight for freedom, the people of Bahrain might well have expected a
similar backing. But they would be proved wrong.
The Western response to the use of violence by the Bahraini regime
against the Bahraini people was muted. There were no UN resolutions.
There were no sanctions. There were no travel bans. Thanks to the inter-
vention of Western lobbyists and PR firms in the pay of the Bahraini rul-
ing family, the story dropped out of international news agendas. Bahrain’s
King Hamad was not to be an international pariah like Syria’s Bashar al-
Asad or Libya’s Colonel Gaddafi. In fact, less than six months after the
crackdown, British Prime Minister David Cameron welcomed the king
at Downing Street. Among other things, they discussed the situation in
Syria. They did not discuss the situation in Bahrain.
If what happened in Bahrain showed some of the inconsistencies of
Western foreign policy in the post–Arab Spring Middle East, then what
happened in Egypt in the summer of 2013 shone a spotlight on them.
In February 2011, Egyptians took to the streets in their millions calling
for the overthrow of Hosni Mubarak and the military regime he headed.
Egyptians wanted change and, unlike the Bahrainis, they got it. In June
2012, Muhammad Morsi of the Muslim Brotherhood became the first
democratically elected president in Egypt’s seven-thousand-year history.
Barely a year later, Egyptians took to the streets again. This time call-
ing for the overthrow of Morsi. Rival demonstrations called for him
to stay. The military, backed by money from the Gulf, played on these
divisions and seized their chance to reclaim power. They deposed Morsi,
installed an interim regime with no democratic mandate, and began a
crackdown that was so brutal; it made the crackdown in Bahrain look
mild in comparison.
Once again, the West had little to say. When questioned about events
in Egypt, British Foreign Minister William Hague resorted to all man-
ner of verbal gymnastics to avoid saying the “c” word. Because if what
happened in Egypt were to be acknowledged as a coup, US aid would be
cut. EU assistance would be stopped. And much-needed IMF funds for
cash-strapped Egypt would be off the table. Egypt would then be obliged
to look beyond the West for financial help. Perhaps to Moscow. And
Moscow was already reclaiming too much influence in the Middle East
for the West’s liking.
There was also the issue of Israel. Egypt was the first Arab coun-
try to strike a peace deal with Israel—a deal largely underwritten by
American money and military aid. The Israeli security establishment
doubted whether President Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood would
honor the treaty.
There were also behind-the-scenes murmurings that Israel’s political
establishment had no desire to see a close ally of Hamas in power in the
Arab world’s biggest country. But with the army-backed regime in Cairo
promising to maintain the status quo and with Morsi in prison awaiting
trial on trumped-up charges, there was no chance of anything changing.
Stability was assured. Israel’s southern border appeared to be safe.
The chaos in Syria, the crackdown in Bahrain, and the coup in Egypt
are just three examples of a region in flux. Across the Middle East and
North Africa, there are further examples.
Yemen, scene of another coup, has become another failed state and a
battlefield for another proxy war. Libya is so rife with armed militias that
in 2013 even the prime minister was not safe from kidnap. By early 2015,
the country had two rival governments. Lebanon, by contrast, did not
even have one: the country’s politicians could not agree on a president.
Even worse, the country has been sucked into Syria’s wars and will prob-
ably not survive the crisis in its current form. Iraq is also in crisis. In 2013,
the country saw a spike in violence that is nothing short of horrific. By the
summer of 2014, the country had all but collapsed. Divided among the
Kurds in the north, ISIL in the center, and the Shi‘is in the south, Iraq is
no longer functioning as a coherent political unit. To fight ISIL, Baghdad
has had to turn to Iran for help.
And in the background, far down news agendas until a new eruption
of violence explodes onto our screens and briefly reclaims the world’s
attention, the region’s longest running conflict between Israelis and
LOST IN THE LABYRINTH 5
Palestinians chugs along, as far from resolution as it was back in 1948

when the two peoples went to war for the first time.
If all of this leaves you wondering what’s really going on in the Middle
East, how this mess happened, and what is likely to happen next, the
place to start looking for answers is not in the great imperial Arab cit-
ies of Baghdad, Cairo, or Damascus. It is not even in the sacred cities
of Mecca, Medina, or Jerusalem. The place to start looking is not in the
Middle East at all.
It is in the Balkan city of Sarajevo where on a sunny summer day, over
a century ago, a man driving a car took a wrong turn and changed the
course of history.
PartI
The Tangled Web: Why the

Great Powers of Europe
Became Involved in
the Middle East
1
Sarajevo: Sunday,
June 28, 1914
The man’s name was Franz Urban.

He was a chauffeur and his passengers on that sunny summer day a
century ago were two of the most important people in Europe: the heir
to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and the
archduke’s wife, Sophie.
The Austro-Hungarian Empire was one of the largest in Europe. It
was also one of the oldest. It was the latest reinvention of the Habsburg
Empire whose territories in the sixteenth century had extended far beyond
Europe to include huge chunks of central and southern America. By the
twentieth century, the Habsburg dynasty had survived wars, revolution,
and bankruptcy to emerge as rulers of a central European empire stretch-
ing from Austria in the west to Ukraine in the east, Poland in the north to
Bosnia in the south. The great cities of Vienna, Budapest, and Prague all
fell within the Habsburg realm.
Multiethnic, multifaith, and multicultural, the Austro-Hungarian
Empire was an intellectual powerhouse. It was here that Sigmund
Freud founded a new science of psychoanalysis and, in doing so, for-
ever changed how we see ourselves and how we understand sex and
sexuality. It was here that Gustav Klimt founded a new school of art, the
Secessionist, and painted the gold-hued modern icon Portrait of Adele
Bloch-Bauer 1 that would break sales records in 2007 when Ronald S.
Lauder, son of cosmetics giant Estée, bought it for his New York museum
for a staggering sum of $135,000,000, and the story of which became a
major motion picture in 2015, Woman in Gold , starring Helen Mirren
and Ryan Reynolds.
And it was here that Theodor Herzl founded a new political ideol-
ogy that would have profound consequences for the future of the Middle
East: the belief that the Jewish people were a people like any other and
should have a national home of their own, an idea that came to be known
as Zionism.
Ruling such a diverse and dynamic empire meant power on a truly
grand scale, but for Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the chance to exercise
that power came at considerable personal cost. In an era of empires and
elites, the sons of one royal house were expected to marry the daughters
of another. Royal marriages were not just personal. They were political:
a good way to cement relations between foreign powers. A king could
hardly go to war with a country whose head of state was married to his
sister and whose children called him uncle. Or so the elites of Europe
thought.
This line of thinking led Europe’s royal families to become so inter-
connected that the Romanian king was genetically German; the Greek
monarchs were really Danish; and one of the most famous Russian roy-
als, Catherine the Great, was not Russian at all. She was a German named
Sophie. But it was Britain’s Queen Victoria who set new benchmarks in
imperial intermarriage. Her children (particularly her daughters) mar-
ried so strategically that by 1914 the thrones of no fewer than three of
Europe’s empires—the British, the German, and the Russian—were all
occupied by Victoria’s direct descendants or in-laws. Kaiser Wilhelm II
and Tsar Nicholas II were King George V’s full cousins.
In this closed circle of blue blood and imperial alliances, Franz
Ferdinand committed the cardinal sin. He put his heart before his head
and married beneath him. His wife Sophie did not come from a famous
family with impressive imperial credentials. She was not even royal. She
was a minor member of the Czech aristocracy whose family had seen bet-
ter days financially. And Emperor Franz Josef never let her, or her hus-
band, forget it.1
Emperor Franz Josef had lived his adult life on the throne. Now 83 years
old, he had come to power in 1848 while still a teenager. In the near seven
decades of his reign, he had outlived several heirs. Franz Ferdinand, his
nephew, was his fourth. The emperor’s treatment of his heir suggests that
if he could have appointed anyone else to fill the role he would gladly have
done so. So low was the emperor’s opinion of the archduke’s wife that
he made his nephew swear an oath that neither Sophie nor her children
would ever inherit the empire. To underline the point, the emperor made
sure royal protocol was strictly enforced at any event Sophie attended.
This led to bizarre scenes at state receptions where Sophie was treated as
a low provincial aristocrat rather than the wife of the future emperor. She
would be seated at the bottom of the table away from her husband and, in
royal processions, was obliged to walk at the end of the line alone.2
SARAJEVO: SUNDAY, JUNE 28, 1914 11
The royal couple bore these private slights and public humiliations
and enjoyed their life together. June 28, 1914, was their wedding anni-
versary, and photographs taken early in the day show a genuinely happy
couple. They sit smiling in the back of their open-top car. Sophie holds
a bunch of flowers and looks on while her husband shakes hands with a
local dignitary.
Franz Ferdinand and his wife were in Bosnia on official business. The
archduke had come to oversee the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Army Corps
on maneuvers in the border province. Security was a pressing concern
for the empire because the Balkan region was in a state of upheaval. But
exactly how much the Habsburgs knew about what was really going on
beyond their borders and how prepared they were to deal with it remains
an open question. The empire’s intelligence chief, Colonel Alfred Redl,
had been arrested the year before, caught red-handed passing secrets to
the Russians. Partly to keep his personal life private (he was gay) and
partly to fund his lavish lifestyle (he had very expensive taste), the colonel
had duped his political masters for a decade. After being interrogated,
Colonel Redl was given a gun and left alone to do the honorable thing.
The scandal was hushed up but the damage was done. At a time when the
Habsburg Empire’s southern borders were simmering with discontent,
Vienna was relying on faulty intelligence.3
The province that the archduke was visiting, Bosnia, was bordered
by Serbia and Montenegro. Both were newly independent after centuries
as provinces of the Ottoman Empire. Other Balkan countries were also
recent additions to the map of Europe: Bulgaria, Romania, Albania, and
Greece had all recently broken away from Istanbul’s control, often with
the help of one of the Great Powers. Britain and Russia, in particular, were
ruthlessly Machiavellian about using the Balkans to score points against
their imperial rival in Istanbul.
For the new Balkan states, however, independence brought new prob-
lems. They had freedom but no peace. In 1912, and again in 1913, several
of these countries went to war with each other over unfulfilled territo-
rial ambitions. State creation is not an exact science, and the lines on the
new map of Europe were not drawn cleanly and people frequently found
themselves on the wrong side of a new border. There were, for example,
large numbers of Serbs in Bosnia who wanted to be citizens of the Serbian
state rather than subjects of the ageing Austrian emperor.
All of this presented a challenge to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It
was not just that Vienna needed to protect the empire’s southern border
from invasion or another Balkan war. The real threat to the empire was
ideological. The newly formed Balkan states were based on the idea of
nation. A nation-state saw people with a common language and (usually)
a common religion draw on their shared historical experience and come

together to create a shared future destiny. Italy’s city-states did it in 1870,
Germany’s principalities in 1871. Both were thriving.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, nationalism was one of the
most influential political ideologies. With its focus on ethnic unity, it
was the polar opposite of the transnationalism of the Austro-Hungarian
Empire where no fewer than 12 languages were spoken and at least four
religions were freely practiced. To this day, Budapest still has the largest
synagogue in Europe.
The problem for a transnational empire like Austro-Hungary was that
some of the nationalities in it were more equal than others. The empire’s
name gave its priorities away: the Austrians and Hungarians were politi-
cally more important than everyone else. The Austrians, in turn, were
more important than the Hungarians. Franz Ferdinand planned to
address this imbalance when he became emperor and aimed to make
the empire more equal.4 In the meantime, nationalism gained strength
among the empire’s minorities who saw it as a way to achieve their goal
of independence.
These minorities were encouraged by the success of their Balkan
brothers. Like the minorities in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the peo-
ple of the Balkans had once belonged to a vast transnational empire—the
Ottoman—that spanned three continents and was a veritable Babel of
languages and peoples. But like the empire in Vienna, the one in Istanbul
also had a dominant culture. And Istanbul’s Turkish and Islamic culture
was not shared by the Serbs, Bulgarians, and Greeks who lived in the
empire’s European provinces. So when the Serbs, Bulgarians, and Greeks
broke away from Istanbul, the minorities in the Habsburg Empire started
to entertain hopes of breaking free of Vienna.
Discontent had been bubbling beneath the surface in the provinces of
the Austrian Empire for years. And on June 28, 1914, the empire’s heir and
his wife walked blithely into the maelstrom of that long-simmering dis-
content. The date, emotionally significant for them personally, was even
more significant for local Serbs. It was National Day in Serbia, marking
one of the defining moments of Serb history: the Battle of Kosovo Polje
(the Field of Blackbirds) against the Ottomans in 1389 when the Serbs, led
by King Lazar, were defeated. Lazar was killed. The Kingdom of Serbia
was reduced to a vassal state of the Ottoman Empire. The saving grace for
Serb honor was that they did not go down without a fight. One of their
fighters assassinated the Ottoman sultan, Murad I, on the battlefield. 5
On this day heavy with so much history, the imperial couple began
their official visit. Soon after they arrived in the city, a young man in the
midst of a crowd of cheering well-wishers lobbed a bomb at their car.
SARAJEVO: SUNDAY, JUNE 28, 1914 13
The bomb bounced off and crashed into the oncoming car carrying
the archduke’s staff. There were injuries but no fatalities. The injured
men were taken to hospital. The attacker was caught. The archduke and
duchess continued their journey to the City Hall for an official reception.
Arriving at the City Hall, the archduke was overheard asking one of the
local dignitaries, “So you welcome your guests here with bombs?” But
other than that, he and his wife appeared remarkably unruffled by the
attempt on their lives.6
The attack was carried out by six young Serbs from a radical group
called Young Bosnia whose aim was to free Bosnia from Vienna’s control
and unite it with the rest of Serbia. Trained and armed across the border
in Belgrade, the young men were sent into Bosnia with orders to hit at
the heart of Austrian imperial power. Franz Ferdinand’s visit to Sarajevo
provided an ideal, high-profile opportunity to do it.
But the Young Bosnians were not professional soldiers. And as far
as would-be assassins went, they were not really up to the job. One of
them, Gavrilo Princip, was actually ill with tuberculosis. By the time the
archduke arrived at the City Hall, it looked as if their mission had failed
miserably.
When the imperial couple finished their visit to City Hall, they decided
to deviate from their official agenda and visit the hospital where the
injured officers were being treated. This meant a change in their planned
route. Their driver, Franz Urban, did not know the new route. When he
came to the intersection between Franzjosefstrasse and Appel Quay, he
took the wrong turn. The street was so narrow that he could not turn the
car around. He had to brake, go into reverse, and go back down the street
at a snail’s pace.
A young man idling at the street corner suddenly spotted the open-
topped car crawling the street. He was Gavrilo Princip. The royal couple
were just a few feet away from Princip. The 19-year-old wasted no time.
He pulled out his gun and fired twice. Both shots hit their target. Franz
Ferdinand and Sophie were dead by the time they reached hospital.7
* * *
Within weeks, Europe was at war.

The imperial system of alliances, so carefully constructed over so
many years to maintain the balance of power in Europe and to prevent
war, now kicked in and brought about the very war they were designed
to prevent.
After the assassination in Sarajevo, Austro-Hungary issued an ultima-
tum to Serbia, the terms of which were almost impossible to fulfill. Even
so, Serbia tried. But one of the stumbling blocks to any resolution was the
rapidly developing international nature of the crisis.
Germany was joined by geography and linked by language with
Austro-Hungary, and Berlin now urged Vienna to stand their ground.
(Vienna, it has to be said, needed little encouragement.) Russia was Slavic
like Serbia and followed the same Orthodox faith, and St. Petersburg now
urged Belgrade to stand theirs.
To complicate matters further, Russia was allied by treaty with Britain
and France, which meant anyone taking on St. Petersburg would have to
fight on more than one front.
It was to avoid that very scenario that Germany decided to invoke the
“Schlieffen Plan.” Named after the general who devised it, this plan would
see Germany invading France from the north, via Belgium and Holland,
in a lightning strike that would knock France out of the war and leave
Germany free to fight Russia.
The problem for Germany was that Britain and France had been legal
guarantors of Belgium’s neutrality since 1839. The British government sent
an ultimatum to Berlin reminding them as much. The Germans ignored
it. On August 4, the day the ultimatum was due to expire, Germany went
ahead and invaded Belgium.
Cousinly kinship between the royal houses of Europe counted for
nothing now. On August 4, 1914, five of Europe’s great empires were at
war. On one side were Germany and Austro-Hungary. On the other were
Britain, France, and Russia. The Ottoman Empire would soon join the
German side. And because these empires, with the exception of Austro-
Hungary, all had extensive overseas territories, this war would not be
confined to the continent where it started.
The Middle East would be particularly affected. European powers,
mainly Britain and France, had taken over much of the region during the
nineteenth century. The First World War would provide them with the
opportunity to seize control of even more of it.
But what brought these Great Powers into the Arab world in the first
place had nothing at all to do with the high politics of war and peace. It
was much more mundane than that.
It was money.
2
The British Empire and

the Arab World:
Ambition, Austerity,
and a Class Apart
The sovereign of Egypt had grand ambitions.

His name was Ismail (r. 1863–79) and he was the grandson of
Muhammad Ali, the man widely regarded as the founder of modern
Egypt. Muhammad Ali was one of those giants of history who start with
nothing and end with everything. An illiterate soldier from Macedonia, he
arrived in Egypt as part of the Ottoman sultan’s army against Napoleon’s
disastrous invasion of 1798. He never left.
His success was based on his military skills, and in 1805 those skills
saw him promoted to pasha, or ruler. From then, until his death in 1848,
he ruled Egypt as his personal fief, his obedience to Istanbul little more
than lip service. At times, he fought alongside the sultan’s forces—and
at times he fought against them. Which side he took depended on where
his personal interests lay. In 1841, the Ottoman Sultan Abdulmajid rec-
ognized this reality and took a new approach to secure his erstwhile
ally’s loyalty. He made him royal. Egypt would remain a province of
the Ottoman Empire, but Muhammad Ali had the power to appoint his
own successors.1
On his death, Muhammad Ali was succeeded first by his son Ibrahim
(r. 1848), then by a grandson Abbas (r. 1848–54), then by another son
Said (1854–63). Said is remembered as the man who commissioned the
Suez Canal. But it was Muhammad Ali’s grandson Ismail (r. 1863–79)
who inherited the full force of the patriarch’s driving ambition and who
set about remaking Egypt in a modern mold.
Inspired by a visit to France in 1867 for the World Exhibition, Ismail

decided to build a New Paris on the Nile. Not for him were the crowded
quarters and the twisting, winding alleyways of Cairo’s old city. Under
Ismail, the medieval was cast aside and Cairo was redrawn to accom-
modate wide Haussmann-esque boulevards. Entire suburbs were trans-
formed. An opera house was built. Public parks, gardens, and open
spaces dotted the city. And the changes were not just cosmetic. The lat-
est technology was imported from Europe along with the latest architec-
ture and culture. Telegraphs, street lighting, railways, irrigation projects,
European-style schools including schools for girls and technical colleges,
all became part of the landscape of the new Egypt.
And the crowning glory of this modernized Egypt was the Suez Canal.
Its construction revolutionized Egypt’s place in the world. Egypt was no
longer a country off the beaten track that travelers, traders, and troops
had to make a special effort to reach. It was now fully incorporated into
international trade routes. Thanks to the canal, trade between Europe
and the East was able to bypass the long and expensive route round the
African Cape. With shipping costs drastically reduced, Egypt became
nothing less than the pivot between East and West.
No expense was spared for the canal’s grand opening in November
1869. It was a French engineer, Ferdinand de Lesseps, who designed the
canal, so the honor of opening it was given to French Empress Eugénie.
Legend has it that Ismail had a palace specially built in Cairo’s island sub-
urb of Zamalek for her. Verdi was commissioned to write a new opera,
Aida, for the occasion. (It was not ready in time so they made do with
Rigoletto.) Egypt’s reinvention as a modern nation was complete. Ismail
went as far as to declare his country was now part of Europe.
There was just one problem. Egypt did not have the money to pay for any
of it. And within six years of the canal opening, Egypt was bankrupt.
In fairness to Ismail, the mess was not all of his making. His uncle Said
had launched the Suez project and he awarded the contract for building
the canal to his close friend, Ferdinand de Lesseps, and he did so on terms
wholly unfavorable to Egypt. Cairo was burdened with all the costs of
constructing the canal in return for only a minority share of the potential
profits, which meant that even though the canal quickly became a huge
financial success, the beneficiaries were the European shareholders of the
canal’s holding company not the Egyptian exchequer. 2
Adding to the pile of financial losses, Egypt financed the canal’s con-
struction with loans from European banks, which were leveraged at such
high rates of interest; it was debatable if Egypt could ever repay them,
regardless of how profitable the canal turned out to be.
THE BRITISH EMPIRE AND THE ARAB WORLD 17
And, as if all of these were not enough, there were issues about
Ismail’s rebranding of Egypt as a European country. As part of his strat-
egy, he imported the trappings of European progress but not Europe’s
economic or political model. The city of Paris, which had impressed
him so much during his visit in 1867, was supported by a solid man-
ufacturing industry, a productive farming sector, a thriving banking
community, and trade from a worldwide empire. Egypt had none of
these. Even its most successful export was not as economically produc-
tive as it could have been. Egypt’s farming sector was overly reliant
on one crop, cotton, and overly reliant on one customer, the mills in
Lancashire, England. 3
Then there was the issue of Ismail’s financial relations with Istanbul.
In return for doubling the yearly tribute to the Ottoman sultan, from 1866
Ismail was allowed to call himself “ khedive,” the Persian for sovereign. He
was also granted the right to introduce the principle of primogeniture.
The right of the first-born son to inherit power was not widely practiced
in Muslim monarchies. Ever since the dynastic principle was introduced
into the Muslim world in the seventh century, the ruling family as a unit
took precedence over any individual line of it. Caliphs and sultans often
tried to pass power to their direct descendants, but the wider family
always won in the end. With this grant from the sultan, Ismail succeeded
where so many before him had failed. But he had to pay for the privilege
and it was one more thing he could not afford.4
In 1875, the entire house of cards collapsed. Egypt’s foreign debt was
now roughly the same size as the country’s entire economy. There was
simply no way to balance the books. Bankruptcy prompted a fire sale of
assets. The khedive’s most desirable financial asset was his 40 percent
stake (just over 175,000 shares) in the Suez Canal’s holding company,
the Compagnie Universelle du Canal Maritime de Suez. The company’s
majority shareholders were French, and to maintain French influence, a
number of French banks expressed interest in buying the khedive out. De
Lesseps himself was said to have made an offer.
But this was to be Britain’s moment. The world’s greatest maritime
power with a global empire on which the sun never set needed access to
the Suez Canal more than anyone else. British Prime Minister Benjamin
Disraeli was acutely aware of just how important the canal was to British
imperial interests. He acted swiftly. With an informality that would be
unthinkable nowadays, Disraeli rushed round to the house of his friend
Baron Lionel de Rothschild and borrowed the four million pounds Britain
needed to buy the khedive’s shares.
And with that, the deal was done.5
Buying the khedive’s shares was a triumph for Disraeli.

By acting so quickly, he made sure Britain had a role in determining
the future of the canal. Half of Britain’s shipping to India went through
Suez. In the short time since the canal opened, it had become too impor-
tant to Britain’s strategic interests to allow London’s arch imperial rival,
France, to gain control of the company that ran it. Had the French suc-
ceeded in doing so, it would have given Paris the power to strangle
British shipping. After the sale, Britain and France set their imperial
rivalry aside to put up a united front in defense of their own interests
against Egypt. It was a policy both parties held right up to the Suez War
in 1956.
In 1879, London and Paris began strengthening their position in Egypt
by taking control of the country’s finances. In theory, the debt manage-
ment agency, the Caisse de la Dette (or the European Debt Commission),
which was set up to sort out Egypt’s financial crisis, was neutral of outside
political interference. In theory, it was a body made up of independent
financial experts whose job was to make sure Egypt did not default on its
debts to European banks. In reality, it was the Trojan horse for a full-scale
European takeover of Egypt.
In the same year the debt agency started its work, Paris and London
put pressure on the Ottoman Sultan Abdulhamid II (himself in the same
kind of financial trouble as Khedive Ismail and for much the same rea-
sons) to allow them to depose Ismail in favor of his young son Tawfiq.
Needless to say, the sultan who needed a European bailout just as much
as the Egyptians did was not about to argue.6
To Egyptians, it was clear that the ease with which Britain and France
achieved their goals owed less to the power of their ideas than the power of
their money. Egyptians knew Egypt could not compete against European
domination on those terms, so they turned to the power of their military.
The hero of the hour was an army officer named Ahmad Urabi who came
from a peasant family. A son of the land himself, Urabi understood the
grievances of ordinary people. His rising popularity soon alarmed the
British and French. Their worries were validated when Urabi was arrested
in 1880, thrown in jail, and the Egyptian army refused to detain him.
Instead, he was appointed to the cabinet. Once there, he proceeded to
push the khedive out.
That was the final straw for the British. They feared a popular leader
who enjoyed the support of the military and the masses would challenge
Anglo-French control of the canal. In what was to become a long-stand-
ing feature of British policy in this part of the world, London claimed to
have no selfish interests in Egypt, to be acting solely against a military

dictator, and to have absolutely no intention of occupying the country.
Then, with the full backing of the French, they did exactly the opposite
and sent the troops in.
What began with a massive naval bombardment on Alexandria on July
11, 1882, ended with the defeat of Urabi’s forces in the battle at Tell al-
Kabir near Cairo just two months later on September 13. Urabi was sent
packing.7 Later, he would be honored as the founding father of Egyptian
nationalism. One of the main streets in downtown Cairo bears his name
to this day. But for now, he was off into exile while the British made them-
selves at home in Egypt. For the next 70 years.
For London, victory in Egypt secured a key strategic objective.

Since the opening of the Suez Canal, Egypt had been the missing link
on the route from Britain to India. So central was India to British impe-
rial strategy that securing the route was nothing short of an obsession. It
was not enough to control the subcontinent itself. Every part of the way
there had to be subdued in one way or another; if for no other reason
than to prevent an imperial rival hoisting their flag over it. As a result,
Britain viewed every country from the English Channel to the Hindu
Kush mountain range as future friend or foe.
Prior to 1882, Britain had access to a number of coaling stations in
the Mediterranean: Gibraltar, Malta, and Cyprus. London also had trea-
ties with many of the families who ruled the coastal enclaves along the
Persian Gulf. Under the terms of these agreements, British ships traveling
to and from India were allowed to dock and refuel in their ports in return
for British payment and “protection”—a diplomatic way of offering the
undiplomatic choice “you are either with us or against us.”
From as far back as 1798, the British had worked with the sultan of
Muscat in Oman. In 1820, they concluded a treaty with the ruling fami-
lies of the Trucial States on the eastern side of the Gulf (now known as the
United Arab Emirates). In 1839, the British occupied Aden in modern-
day Yemen, which was the most important port on the sea route between
Egypt and India.
By the middle of the century, it was the turn of the Bu Said family in
Oman to join the British sphere of influence. By 1861, the Khalifa family
on the island of Bahrain had decided to do the same. These treaties were
alliances of mutual convenience. The British used them to secure a key
stage of the route to India at minimal cost. The Arab rulers for their part
used them to secure power against local rivals. And they did it well: these
ruling families remain in power to this day. 8
With Egypt now a link in this imperial chain of ports and overseas
bases, London could relax. British sea power was secure. Now all London
had to do was find someone to rule the land of the Sphinx.
They found their man in Evelyn Baring, otherwise known as Lord
Cromer.
Baring was a bastion of the British establishment. A military man,
Baring was the grandson of an admiral, the son of a member of parlia-
ment, and he himself had served as a soldier on three continents before
going to work in the Indian service. His paternal family, the Barings,
owned the bank of that name.
Aside from securing the Suez Canal, Britain intervened in Egypt to
make sure the country repaid its loans to European banks. From London’s
point of view, who better than a Baring to look after the interests of Britain
and her banks?9
In 1883, now in his forties, Cromer arrived in Cairo to take up the
post of Consul General with powers that would have made a pharaoh
blush. Cromer’s aim was not to rule Egypt—Britain, to the end, main-
tained the fiction that Egypt was not a colony—but “to rule the rul-
ers of Egypt.” And Cromer had the force of character to impose this
system of indirect dictatorship. No shrinking violet, his colleagues in
India referred to him as “Over-Baring.” To Egyptians, he was simply
“The Lord.”
For the next 24 years, Cromer ruled Egypt in all but name. With a
relatively small number of British troops, he managed to embed British
authority across the country. With an equally small number of British
bureaucrats, he managed to perform feats of financial wizardry and bal-
ance the Egyptian books. Surplus cash was available for investment in
public works, especially agriculture and irrigation, and cotton produc-
tion soared at a time when its price was booming in the international
market. It was during Cromer’s era that the first Aswan Dam was built
(1906). He was also responsible for abolishing the hated corvée, the system
of forced labor, which allowed wealthy landowners to force ordinary men
into unpaid work for unlimited periods of time.10
It was measures like these that justified British rule in their own eyes.
More than anything else, Cromer and his fellow members of the impe-
rial elite believed Britain brought fiscal stability and the rule of law to
Egypt.11 Corruption was so endemic in the country that wealthy absentee
landowners could confiscate the cotton crop of their tenants, plough a
road through their holdings, or cut off their water supply, and the farmers
could do nothing to stop them.
The British, by contrast, wanted all Egyptians to be subject to the same

law. The fact that peasants could not afford access to it was something the
British authorities did not seem to consider.
The truth was that the British did not need to justify their occupation
of Egypt to themselves. The late nineteenth century was the high water-
mark of international imperialism, and Egypt was a welcome addition
to the British Empire. And Egypt was not just any country. The land of
the Sphinx held a special fascination for Victorian England. Victorian
society was a curious, contradictory mix of Puritanism and pleasure, and
Egypt with its Biblical associations, Classical connections, and exoticism
seemed to have something for everyone. It was here that Moses received
the Ten Commandments and led the Jews from captivity to freedom
in the Promised Land. It was here that Antony romanced Cleopatra in
a doomed seduction immortalized by England’s national playwright
Shakespeare. And it was here that the intrepid explorer, sexual adven-
turer, and translator of the Kama Sutra, Sir Richard Burton, risked his
life and liberty to embark on his secret pilgrimage to Mecca in 1853; a
feat that so captured the imagination of Victorian society, the book of the
journey became a bestseller when it was published in 1855 and continues
to sell today.
For the British administrators sent to work in Egypt, the country
became a home away from home. Zamalek, the island suburb in the
middle of the Nile, was a virtual British enclave where they recreated the
world they knew and lived as a class apart. Often their only real contact
with anyone Egyptian was with their servants and chauffeurs.
British women yielded nothing to their environment and continued
to behave and dress as if they were in a sitting room in Surrey or a ball-
room in Belgravia rather than living on the edge of an African desert.
Afternoons were whiled away having tea at Shepheard’s British Hotel or
drinking gin pahits at the country club.
The British sense of splendid isolation extended to education and
sport. The British established their own schools where their children were
taught in their own language by their own people and where they studied
the same subjects they would have studied back in Britain.
They also brought their pastimes to Egypt: most notably, football. To
this day, the football club in Zamalek still has not broken fully free of its
foreign associations. By contrast, its main Cairo rival, al-Ahly (meaning
national) set up in 1907 by Egyptians for Egyptians, has none of Zamalek’s
imperial baggage.12
The British presence in Egypt was reinforced throughout the year by
a steady stream of tourists from the home country. Cairo was a must-
see destination for the more adventurous of the Grand Tourists and for
travelers en route to the Holy Land. It was also a stopping-off point for the
many British administrators traveling to and from India.
But what of the people whose country this was? What did the Egyptians
make of the British occupation of their land?
As a proud people with a civilization stretching seven millennia, the

Egyptians viewed the British occupation as nothing short of a national
humiliation. Muslim since 641, part of the Ottoman Empire since 1517,
Egypt now had to come to terms with the rule of a non-Muslim power.
The physical occupation and subsequent loss of sovereignty were just
one part of the problem. Even more of an affront to Egyptian national
pride was the patronizing nature of British power. Repeatedly, the British
claimed they were not occupying Egypt. Repeatedly, they claimed they
were only there to sort out the country’s finances. Repeatedly, they
claimed they would leave as soon as they could find a stable government
to replace them.
Yet British actions repeatedly contradicted their words. They did
nothing to encourage the development of a local political class that could
replace them. Quite the reverse: they turned the khedives into little more
than figureheads. First, they deposed Ismail (r. 1863–79) and set up a
legislative assembly to rubberstamp their decisions. Next, they stripped
Ismail’s son Tawfiq (r. 1879–92) of any real power. Then, they deposed
Tawfiq’s successor son Abbas II (r. 1892–1914) at the start of the First
World War and declared Egypt a protectorate of the British Empire.
From the outset, Cromer ran Egypt in the interests of the rulers not
of the ruled. Even his successful restructuring of the country’s debts was
for the benefit of Britain’s banks, not for the Egyptians themselves. And
having made Egypt safe for European capital, Cromer, scion of a banking
dynasty that he was, encouraged these same banks to invest there to help
small-scale farmers. But this too was done for the benefit of the banks.
They needed new markets for their capital and he provided them.13
Cromer’s capital investment programs, particularly in irrigation and
agriculture, were also done with both eyes fixed firmly on Europe. With
more land reclaimed and more water available, the country became even
more reliant on cotton production than it had been back in the days of
Muhammad Ali. This lack of diversification was dangerous in the long
term, but, as with the debt program, it was done to meet the needs of
the international economy rather than to improve the living standards of
the ordinary Egyptian farmer. Under British rule, Egypt was deliberately
integrated into the world economy on terms unfavorable to Egypt. The

impact was divisive and felt throughout society. The rich elite who traded
with Europe became much richer and the poor became much, much
poorer. All of this meant wealthy landowners could still exploit the fel-
laheen farmers who worked their land whatever way they wanted, corvée
or no corvée.
This structural imbalance in the nation’s finances was repeated in
the country’s education system. Cromer and the men who followed him,
such as Consul Generals Sir Eldon Gorst (r. 1907–11) and Lord Kitchener
(r. 1911 until the First World War), made little or no investment in the pub-
lic education system. Rich Egyptians could afford to send their children
to private schools—most of which were British-run with classes taught in
English—while poor Egyptians had to make do with the underresourced
state sector. In such circumstances, social mobility was nonexistent. And
in such circumstances, it was unlikely that a class of Egyptians would ever
emerge who were rebellious, educated, and articulate. The imperial logic
was that the rich Egyptians who benefited from the status quo would not
rock the boat and the poor would not know how to.14
Divisions in Egypt were further reinforced by the law. The British may
well have believed they were making all Egyptians equal before it, but
they placed all non-Egyptians above it. To do this, they took advantage
of a legal loophole dating back to 1569. Known as the Capitulations, these
legal measures allowed foreign citizens living in the Ottoman Empire
to claim legal redress under the laws of their own country. The Great
Powers exploited the loophole to give their own citizens virtual immu-
nity from prosecution. In Egypt, it was particularly useful for British
businesses setting up after 1882 as they were not subject to local law. It
was also useful to protect British soldiers from potential prosecution.
For Egyptians, this legal gap between occupier and occupied was thrown
into sharp relief by what happened in a village in the Nile Delta one sum-
mer day in 1906.
In June of that year, a group of British officers went out pigeon-shoot-
ing in the village of Dinshaway. They were supposed to seek permission
from the locals before doing so and, to avoid any potential accidents, let
the villagers know in advance when they were coming. On this occasion,
they did neither. In the course of the shoot, a local woman was shot by a
British soldier.
Then all hell broke loose. A fight ensued. Shots were fired. There were
casualties and fatality on both sides. But only Egyptians were prosecuted.
Over two hundred were arrested. After what was little more than a show
trial, four residents of Dinshaway were convicted and publicly hanged
two weeks later. Local people were forced to go and watch the executions.
Sentences of hard labor were given to two other men, and many more
local men were publicly flogged.
For Egyptians, the Dinshaway Incident became a notorious example
of the contradictions of the British presence in their country: the British
claimed to be in Egypt to uphold the rule of law, but they did so only when
it suited their own interests. And there was nothing the Egyptians could
do to stop it.
One of the most popular children’s books in Victorian Britain was Lewis
Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865). And the British pres-
ence in Egypt had something of a surreal, wonderland quality to it. When
the British peered through the looking glass at the country around them,
they saw what they wanted to see, not what was there. Empire distorted
the view, threw a veil over their real intentions, and created a form of dip-
lomatic doublespeak that exists to this day when it comes to dealing with
the realities of the Middle East.
Empire allowed a man like Cromer to assume the right to speak for
women in Egypt when he railed against the veil as a symbol of all that was
wrong with Islam. Yet back home, he was so opposed to British women
being given the vote he founded an organization to lobby against it: the
Men’s League for Opposing Women’s Suffrage.
Empire allowed Cromer to make bold sweeping statements such as:
“The Egyptians should be permitted to govern themselves after the fashion
in which Europeans think they ought to be governed.”15 As if Egyptians
should be given the right to choose their own government when—and
only when—they could be relied upon to choose one that matched the
ambitions and interests of Europe’s Great Powers.
Empire allowed contradictions like these to flourish. On rare occa-
sions, Cromer admitted as much. “The English as imperialists,” he said,
“are always striving to attain two ideals which are apt to be mutually
destructive—the ideal of good government, which connotes the continu-
ing of his supremacy, and the ideal of self-government, which connotes
the whole or partial abdication of his supreme position.”16
It was a contradiction the British never resolved. Their great imperial
rivals, the French, would try a different tack in the parts of the Arab world
they occupied. But there was one key area of common ground between
London and Paris. Like the British, it was not matters of war and peace
that brought the French into the Arab world, it was money.
3
The French Empire and

the Arab World: From
the Crusades to the
Civilizing Mission
In 1830, the French invaded Algeria. They stayed for the next 132 years.
This long occupation that was to culminate in a devastating war with
catastrophic consequences for both countries began because of an inci-
dent that bordered on the ridiculous.
In the 1820s France owed Algeria money. Algeria supplied France
with grain, particularly for the French army, and the French had not paid
their bills. In April 1827, a meeting was held between the Algerian ruler,
the dey, and the French ambassador to discuss the debts. It turned into a
showdown.
The dey pressed for payment of the bills. The ambassador fudged. The
arguments became heated. Then, as the ambassador later recorded in his
official report to Paris, the dey lost his temper and struck him with his fly
whisk, an assault the dey vehemently denied.
Given that a fly whisk is not intended for use on anything larger than
a fly, it is hard to imagine what damage the dey could have done had he
indeed wielded it against the ambassador. But the ambassador was ada-
mant and demanded an apology for the affront to French honor.
The dey refused to apologize for something he had not done. Besides,
the French still had not paid their debts. Should the ambassador not con-
centrate on that?
The ambassador, playing the role of wounded party to perfection,
ratcheted up the pressure, and before long the diplomatic equivalent of a
duel was underway.
Back in Paris, Charles X was only too glad of the distraction. France
was again in revolutionary mood. French troops had recently returned
from action in the Greek War of Independence. A deployment that had
not gone well. A foreign policy success elsewhere was needed to regain
lost prestige, and Algeria offered it.1
Part of the Ottoman Empire since 1529, Algeria enjoyed a large mea-
sure of independence from Istanbul. As long as taxes were paid and the
sultan’s name was mentioned in Friday prayers, the ruler of Algeria was
left to his own devices. From the mid-1600s, the region had been ruled
by a military caste, one of whose members took the title “dey.” In 1830,
the ruling dey, Hussein, was about to find himself facing the full force
of French firepower. In the summer of that year, the French navy bom-
barded the Algerian coast. The Algerian armies were no match for the
French forces and the fighting was soon over.
It was a diplomatic and political triumph for the French. Their ambas-
sador had successfully elevated the fly whisk farce into a major inter-
national incident and their government had successfully manipulated
it into the legal justification for a full-scale assault on Algeria. It said
a lot about the asymmetrical nature of imperial finances that, in 1882,
Britain would invade Egypt because Egypt owed Britain money, whereas
France invaded Algeria even though France owed Algeria money. The
sheer scale of imperial power made such inconsistencies irrelevant to the
capitals of Europe.
French debts were well and truly forgotten. In this age of empires, the
French now had a foothold in Africa and the way south to the heart of the
continent lay open before them. All they had to do was secure the rest of
Algeria.
This proved to be a much more difficult task than anyone in Paris had
anticipated. Resistance came in the form of a 25-year-old named Abd al-
Qadir, whose father was leader of the Qadariyya order of Sufi ascetics. 2
Sufis take their name from the Arabic word for wool (suf ) describing the
woolen cloaks they wear to symbolize austerity and their disconnection
from worldly affairs. Outside Islam, they are known for the spectacular,
near-acrobatic displays of their whirling dervishes. The Sufi laser-like
focus on the sacred did not, however, make them retreat from the world
in the way Christian monks did. Throughout Islamic history, members of
Sufi orders have taken up arms to fight for their faith, and they now did
so in Algeria against the French.
Abd al-Qadir mobilized his forces and used Sufi hostels or khanqas as
their logistical base. These were buildings run by the Sufis where travelers
could stay for the night and perform their prayers in the adjacent mosque.
These hostels became the hubs in Abd al-Qadir’s network of resistance
THE FRENCH EMPIRE AND THE ARAB WORLD 27
and enabled his fighters to move across the region, pass on information,
and receive arms, all while posing as pilgrims or traders. Abd al-Qadir
also enjoyed massive support from tribes across Algeria, as well as the
patronage of the ruler of Morocco.
For nine years, from 1832 and 1841, he held this motley band of broth-
ers together and waged his war so successfully that the French were at a
loss about how to deal with him.
Ultimately, Abd al-Qadir became a victim of his own success. Since
conventional methods were not working against him, the French resorted
to unconventional ones. In 1841, a new French general was deployed to
Algeria with a new agenda. General Thomas-Robert Bugeaud was deter-
mined to subdue the territory whatever it took. In an era long before the
Geneva Conventions governed the rules of war, war had no rules. So the
French responded to any attack on their authority with overwhelming
force. The novelist Maupassant, no fan of French imperial adventures,
sums up the army’s casual attitude to the people of Algeria with devastat-
ing clarity in his novel Bel-Ami. He has Georges Duroy (the lead character
and the Bel-Ami of the title) kill three Arabs during his military service
in Algeria and get away with it because the French military did not much
care what happened to an Arab.3
Right across the region, collective punishment became the norm. Crops
were ruined. Villages destroyed. Communities displaced and sometimes
killed. All with the aim of dividing to conquer.4
And it worked. In 1847, Abd al-Qadir surrendered. He had no choice.
His supporters were suffering too much. In victory, the French showed a
generosity they had not shown in war. There was no show trial or public
execution for the Algerian rebel leader. He was sent into exile, first to
Paris where he was received by the great and the good as an equal, and
then to Damascus, the city he chose for his retirement.
With Abd al-Qadir gone, the French were free to concentrate on ruling
Algeria. Years later, the British were content to rule Egypt from the splen-
did isolation of their island enclave on the Nile. As long as Egypt paid its
debts, grew its cotton, and kept the canal open, the British were content
to remain a class apart. Not so the French in Algeria.
The French, unlike the British, were on a mission. They were going to
“civilize” Algeria. They were going to turn it into part of France.
The efforts to colonize Algeria began in earnest with the arrival of

General Bugeaud in 1841. It was not the first time the French had tried
to put down roots in Arab land. Nearly eight hundred years earlier,
the Crusades had been launched from French soil. It was in the French
town of Clermont on November 26, 1095, that Pope Urban II issued a
call to arms for Christians to reclaim the Holy City of Jerusalem from
the Muslim “infidel.” In return, these crusading warriors were promised
nothing short of salvation.
Over 150,000 men responded, many of them from France. But this
army of Christian soldiers was anything but holy. They were a rag-tag
bunch of thrill-seekers looking for excitement, criminals looking for
escape, mercenaries looking for plunder, second sons from noble families
looking for a fief, traders looking for goods and markets, and penitents
looking for redemption. Within two years they were on their way, and
within another two, they had succeeded. For the first time since the sev-
enth century, Jerusalem was Christian again.5
The loss of Jerusalem, the third Holiest City in Islam, to the Christians
in 1099 and the Crusaders’ decision to celebrate by massacring the city’s
population stunned Muslims. The Arab Muslim world was a relatively
self-contained one, used to dealing with the outside world on its own
terms. This was the first time a European army had penetrated the House
of Islam and the experience was so searing that even now, nearly a thou-
sand years later, you can still hear Western intervention in the Middle
East referred to as “Crusader aggression.”
For the next two centuries, Crusaders carved out principalities along
the Mediterranean coastline. Cities like Antioch and Acre, Jaffa and
Jerusalem, Tripoli and Tyre had Latin kings rather than Muslim sul-
tans. Many of these Latin kings were French and the mini-states they
ruled were the forerunner of nineteenth-century colonies: outposts
of European influence backed up by European military might and
European popular opinion. A tour of duty in the East became almost
a rite of passage for Christian kings. England’s Richard the Lion Heart,
Germany’s Frederick Barbarossa, France’s Louis IX: all made their way
eastwards to lead Crusades.
Ultimately, it was all to no avail. Saladin, the great hero of the Arabs
(who was actually a Kurd), recaptured Jerusalem in 1187. Then Louis IX’s
Sixth Crusade in 1249–50 ended in defeat for the Europeans in Egypt.
And toward the end of thirteenth century, in 1291, the Mamluk military
rulers of Egypt took the fight directly to the Crusaders and defeated the
last of their strongholds on the coast of modern Lebanon.
But if the Crusades left a lasting impression on the Arab world, they
also made an impact in Europe. The great historian of the Middle East,
Philip Hitti, notes in his epic History of the Arabs that “the Christians
came to the Holy Land with the notion that they were far superior to
its people, whom they considered idolaters, worshipping Muhammad as

God.”6 Although the Europeans who stayed in the Holy Land often lost
that sense of superiority, the people who set the Crusades in motion never
did. In the highest echelons of the political and religious establishment of
Europe, there remained a firm belief that the Crusades were a just cause
because they sought to bring enlightenment to a people living in spiritual
darkness. According to this view, the fact that Muslims—those people
living in spiritual darkness who could not tell the difference between
Muhammad and God—had the audacity to win left a legacy in Europe of
unfinished business with the East.
Centuries later, Napoleon laid claim to that very legacy and that same
sense of superiority and crusading zeal to justify his invasion of Egypt in
July 1798. Without the slightest hint of irony, Napoleon told Egyptians
that he, like them, was a Muslim, and he had come to Egypt because the
country’s Mamluk rulers were not as good Muslims as the French. He
even planned to write his own Quran. What he really meant was he had
invaded Egypt to save the Egyptians from themselves.
What made Napoleon’s declaration even stranger than his professed
belief in Islam was the fact that the French Revolution of 1789 had swept
aside all religions in favor of reason and rationalism. So the French were
not really bringing the enlightenment of their faith to Egypt. They were
bringing their ideas. As part of his invasion force, Napoleon brought
dozens of scientists who spent their sojourn in Egypt conducting experi-
ments to showcase the power of French ideas and prove the greatness of
French civilization. He even tried to bring local learned men on board and
appointed the renowned Egyptian scholar al-Jabarti to his grand council.
At the time, al-Jabarti was chair of astronomy at al-Azhar University, and
his intellectual curiosity led him to go see the public demonstrations car-
ried out by the French scientists. He was both baffled and impressed.7
Power politics were also at play in this imperial scheme. By invading
Egypt, Napoleon hoped to land a blow on France’s great imperial rival,
Britain. Napoleon’s foreign minister, Talleyrand, a man so politically
slippery he would have left Machiavelli in the shade, correctly identified
Egypt as the weak link in Britain’s route to India.8 If France controlled
Cairo, the British would be in trouble.
For Napoleon, the dream was even bigger. With Egypt in his grasp and
India in his sights, he could be the new Alexander the Great.
But the French did not account for Admiral Horatio Nelson. Under
his command, the British navy routed the French fleet at the Battle of
Aboukir Bay (also known as the Battle of the Nile) on August 1, 1798.
Further French defeats followed when Napoleon set off in the footsteps
of the Crusaders and headed for the Christian Holy Land, only for his
troops to be heavily defeated in the coastal city of Acre by the Ottomans

in the summer of 1799. To make matters worse, the British again routed
the French in Alexandria on March 21, 1801, a defeat that left them no
option but to flee for home.
Napoleon himself had long since fled. After the disaster at Acre, he left
his forces to it and set sail in the early hours of August 22, 1799, without a
word to anyone. His successor as head of the army, General Jean-Baptiste
Kléber, had no idea what was going on until it was too late. Needless to
say, he was not too pleased and called his former boss all the names of
the day.9
Yet even in failure, Napoleon was welcomed home as a conquering
hero. In November that year, he was made First Consul. He was not yet
30 years old and all France was his. Defeat had done nothing to diminish
his reputation because there was something about the East that brought
out the crusading spirit among Europe’s elites. This attitude fostered a
sense of entitlement, almost of ownership, so that when France occupied
Algeria a few decades after Napoleon’s misadventure on the Nile, the idea
of colonizing the country was not as alien as it might first appear. As far
as the French political elite were concerned, General Bugeaud was push-
ing at an open door.
The colonization of Algeria was an old-fashioned land-grab. In 1840,

before he was deployed to Algeria, General Bugeaud told the National
Assembly in Paris what he intended to do when he arrived in Africa.
“Wherever there is fresh water and fertile land, we have to put settlers
without concerning ourselves as to whom these lands belong.”10
He was true to his word. In the 1840s, the general and his forces wasted
no time clearing people off their land to make room for the soon-to-arrive
French. Once the link between the locals and the land was broken, the
farming industry fell apart and famine spread.11 People were forced to
migrate to the cities to look for work and feed their families. Their sense of
dislocation was enormous. Their sense of resentment was even greater.
It was not just the land of ordinary farmers that the French seized.
Tribal lands were also confiscated. Even religious lands were not safe.
Under Islamic law, land and property can be set aside as an endowment
(waqf ) to support charitable causes. The revenues from these lands are
used to support ventures such as mosques, religious schools, hospitals,
and so on. By providing social services to people who could not otherwise
afford them, religious lands functioned as a form of a welfare system.
In 1843, the French changed the law. Religious lands were now no dif-
ferent from any other form of land. Anyone could buy them. Even for-
eigners. The change had devastating consequences for Algerians. Not
only did it show the French had no respect for their Islamic way of life. It
destroyed the system many Algerians relied on to educate their children
and look after them when they were ill.12
The French were only getting started. After their victory against
Abd al-Qadir in 1847, they set about bringing the rest of Algeria under
their control. Throughout the 1850s, they extended their rule south into
the Sahara. This period of conquest and consolidation coincided with
the Second Empire (1852–70) of Louis-Napoleon in France. Nephew
of the first Napoleon, Louis was elected president of the Second Republic
in December 1848. Like his uncle, his ambition knew no limits, and in
December 1851, he staged a coup that laid the groundwork for him to
become Emperor Napoleon III a year later.
His Second Empire was an exciting era of excess where nothing seemed
off limits and anything seemed possible. Paris itself was torn apart in an
urban planning project of truly epic proportions. Whole districts were
destroyed to make way for Baron Haussmann’s city of wide boulevards
and elegant design that we know today. (The redesign was not just done
for aesthetic reasons. It was also to facilitate the quick movement of troops
around the city so that there would be no repeat of the Commune and
the barricades of 1848.) The building industry boomed and speculation
in land reached fever pitch. Fortunes were made and lost in a day. The
wealth sloshing around the city from the new class of property million-
aires and financiers fed an industry of arts, entertainment, and leisure.
Paris as a city of pleasure was born.
And when all the land that could be bought and sold in Paris had been
bought and sold, France’s new class of speculators needed new markets
to exploit. Thanks to the land-clearing efforts of General Bugeaud, they
found them in Algeria. This was France’s Gold Rush. Speculating in
Algeria (and later in other French colonies across North Africa) became
such common practice for French financiers that it seeped into the popu-
lar culture of the time. From the works of Balzac to Maupassant to Zola,
many of the classic novels of this period feature a character made or
ruined by a land deal in North Africa.
That land needed settlers. Algeria became a new frontier for France
where ambitious young men could go, like the Crusaders of old, to carve
out a new life and make something of themselves. By 1870, there were
nearly a quarter of a million Europeans living in Algeria. The result was
that Algeria split in two. One Algeria was for the French settlers, the
colons, who had access to the most productive land and who enjoyed the
full support of the French state. The other was for the Algerians them-
selves who were increasingly pushed to the margins of their own society
and who had no such legal protection.
These divisions were reinforced by language and law. The French spoke
their own language and made it compulsory for any Algerians wishing to
work in the public administration to do so too. Educated Algerians now
started to lead a double life. During the working day, they spoke French,
dressed in European clothes, and accommodated themselves to the
French way of doing things. At home in the evenings, they dropped the
mask and lived another life, speaking Arabic, wearing their own clothes,
and behaving the way they always had.
Then suddenly, in 1870, disaster struck the Second Empire. The
Franco-Prussian war that summer revealed the fragile reality behind the
glittering facade of Louis-Napoleon’s empire. The French were routed.
The Germans were better equipped, better trained, better prepared
than the French, and in one battle alone, they inflicted 20,000 fatalities
on French forces. For France, the war was a national humiliation. The
resource-rich province of Alsace-Lorraine was lost. The Second Empire
collapsed. Louis-Napoleon went into exile in England.
For the Algerians, the end of empire was an opportunity to rebel.
A tribal leader named al-Muqrani stepped forward to lead his fellow
Algerians against the French. Large parts of Algeria rose up with him.13
But it was no use. France under the Third Republic was every bit as impe-
rial as it had been under Napoleon III, and the Algerians were still no
match for the French forces. Colonization continued.
A few years later, in 1874, the French reinforced their authority over
the locals and their land through the code de l’indigénat. Under this law,
Algerian Muslims were subject to all manner of restrictions that did not
apply to the French settlers. The law’s purpose was to curtail opposition to
French rule. As any activity from reading a newspaper critical of French
rule to a full-scale assault on French forces was considered opposition,
the law’s remit was wide indeed. For Algerians to gain more rights, they
had to give up who they were. They had to renounce Islam (an offence
punishable by death under Islamic law) and renounce Algeria. They had
to become French. Few did.14
With Algerians out of the equation, the real power struggle in the
country was among the French themselves: the settlers and the army.
Each party had very different views for the future of Algeria. The settlers
wanted Algeria to be part of France. The army wanted it to be a separate
entity run by them through the bureaux arabes.
Ultimately, the settlers won. And their settler state was so successful
that it attracted large numbers of Spanish immigrants as well as those
from France. By the end of the nineteenth century, nearly two million
hectares of agricultural land were in their hands. They enjoyed so much
support in political, business, and financial circles in Paris that the army
was obliged to give in and accept Algeria as a département of metropoli-
tan France with representation in the Chamber of Deputies.15
But there was one issue that neither the settlers nor their supporters
ever considered. What would happen if, one day, the Algerians launched a
rebellion the French military could not put down? By digging themselves
so deeply into land that was not theirs, the French were ensuring that if
such a revolt ever occurred, they could not simply cut and run, as the
British could—and would—do in Egypt. The French would be obliged to
risk everything and fight to the finish. Whatever the cost.
As the nineteenth century progressed, France’s influence in the Arab

world extended far beyond Algeria.
In one area, modern-day Lebanon, French influence owed less to the
military might of bayonets and gunboats than to an unlikely combination
of schools and silkworms.
Mountainous and far from any center of power, Lebanon had long
been a haven for minorities fleeing persecution. As a result, modern-
day Lebanon, especially the area around Mount Lebanon, has a large
Christian population. And during the nineteenth century, Christian
minorities in the Muslim Ottoman Empire looked increasingly to
Europe for political protection. With European power on the rise and
the Ottoman Empire in dire need of European financial help, sultans had
little choice but to step aside and allow European capitals to all but adopt
a minority religious group.
Standing up for their co-religionists in the Ottoman Empire was a
policy European leaders could sell easily at home. In reality, however,
the policy was little more than cover for European powers to meddle
in Ottoman affairs. In Lebanon, Christians were mostly Maronite and
affiliated to the Catholic Church. As such, they looked to France as the
most powerful Catholic country to defend their interests. And France,
regardless of the Revolution’s separation of Church and State, was only
too happy to oblige.
As a result, the shock troops of the French advance into Lebanon were
not troops, as was the case in Algeria, but Jesuit priests. In 1853, they set
up a printing press in Beirut to produce copies of the Bible in Arabic.
They also set about establishing schools that operated outside the official
Ottoman system.16 Often these schools were established in response to

the requests of local families. There were many areas where no schools
existed or, if they did, they concentrated on Quran studies and only
taught boys.
These Christian missionary schools became very successful, attract-
ing competition from Protestant missionaries whose schools would prove
equally successful, but they helped create a two-tier education system
with knock-on social effects. In the privately run foreign missionary
schools, children were taught in French or English by French or English
teachers who often knew little or nothing about the Arab world. And just
as workers in the French-run administration in Algeria learnt to act one
way at work and another at home, students in these schools had to do the
same, but from an earlier age. Europeans, whether they arrived in the
Arab world as an invasion force or on a spiritual mission, brought pro-
found cultural changes to the region and disrupted its long-established
social fabric.
The Europeans were also revolutionizing local economies. In Egypt,
agricultural output was overly concentrated on cotton production for
the European market. In Lebanon, agriculture was also heavily weighted
in one direction: silkworms for the French textile industry. Whole areas
were given over to the production of this one crop. The French textile
industry had powerful connections in Paris, and the relationship between
Lebanese silk farmers and French clothing manufacturers strengthened
French involvement in the region. As a result, the authorities in Paris
increasingly came to view this corner of the Ottoman Empire as part of
France’s sphere of influence.17
Consequently, the French were quick to act when sectarian tensions led
to a massacre of Christians in Lebanon in 1860. As many as 11,000 men,
women, and children were killed, and well over a hundred Christian vil-
lages destroyed. The communal conflict between Christians and Druzes
stretched back decades and was littered with tit-for-tat killings, but it had
worsened in the recent past because the Ottomans played on it in an effort
to divide and conquer. France and Britain hurriedly sent gunboats to the
Lebanese coast and threatened to invade if the Ottoman authorities did
not resolve the crisis.18
To make sure a massacre on this scale did not happen again, the French
and British called for Mount Lebanon to become autonomous. Because
Istanbul had debts to both countries from the Crimean War, the sultan
gave way to their demands, and in 1861 the mountain became virtually
independent of Ottoman rule. It had its own Christian governor, paid
no taxes to Istanbul, and turned toward Europe. Its fortunes flourished.
There was no need for the French to force their way into this part of the
Arab world. Here, they were warmly welcomed.
Elsewhere in the Arab world where the population was not Christian,
the French were not welcomed quite so warmly.
Tunisia was one such place.

In the 1860s, Tunisia suffered much the same fate as its North African
neighbor Egypt. Like Egypt, Tunisia was nominally part of the Ottoman
Empire. Like Egypt, Tunisia was ruled by a local dynasty. And like Egypt,
that dynasty—the Husayni family—borrowed from European banks and
spent money it did not have. Years of bad harvests and plagues did the
rest and forced the country into bankruptcy in 1867. A debt commission
made up of British, French, and Italian representatives was set up in 1869
to sort out Tunisia’s finances.
All of that changed in 1878 at the Congress of Berlin. Convened by
German Chancellor Prince Otto von Bismarck to sort out problems in the
Balkans, the congress of Europe’s elites agreed to give France complete
control of Tunisia as compensation for France’s loss of the coal-rich prov-
ince of Alsace-Lorraine during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–1.
What happened in Berlin set a dangerous precedent, which would bear
full fruit after the First World War and the effects of which are still with
us today in the battlefields of Syria, the carnage in the streets of Iraq, and
the instability in Lebanon. At the Congress of Berlin, European leaders
showed that harmony in their own continent came through the sacri-
fices made by the people of another. For Europe to live at peace, France
and Germany had to get along. If giving France control of a country on
another continent assuaged French pride and made Franco-German
cooperation easier, it was a price worth paying. Except that it was not a
price being paid by anyone in Europe.
In Tunisia, the French pursued a less-obviously-aggressive policy
than they did in Algeria. There was no attempt to turn Tunisia into a set-
tler state or a military colony. Even so, Tunisians were still separated by
language and law from the French. They were still second-class citizens
in their own country. They were still sidelined economically in favor of
French investors and immigrants. And they were no happier about it than
the Algerians were about what was happening in their country. But faced
with the economic, military, and technical superiority of a European
power, they were equally powerless to do anything to stop it.
With Algeria and Tunisia under their control, the French planned
to consolidate their control of North Africa by turning their attention
to Morocco. Morocco’s position on the north-western Atlantic coast of
Africa had long helped preserve its independence from the Ottoman
Empire. At its political helm was a family, the Alawis, who claimed
descent from the Prophet Muhammad. They had ruled the province
for centuries, from the 1600s, and their grip on power seemed secure
until Sultan Hasan (r. 1873–95) made the same mistake as his counter-
parts along the coast and borrowed excessively from European banks to
fund modernization. In fairness to him, and to them, the structure of
the global economy at the time left them with little alternative. If they
wished to modernize, they had to borrow to buy the latest technology.
And the only people they could borrow such large sums from were the
European banks.
In 1899, the French moved in.
They faced opposition not just from the Moroccans but from the
Spanish. Since 1580, the Mediterranean port of Ceuta had been Spain’s
even though it was on Moroccan territory. The nearby city of Melilla
also belonged to Spain. As a result, Spain felt Morocco fell within Spain’s
sphere of influence. The dispute was eventually settled thanks to France’s
increasingly friendly relations with her great imperial rival, Britain.
In April 1904, Britain and France signed the Entente Cordiale. This
treaty formalized their relations by continuing the process begun at
the Congress of Berlin of carving up various parts of the world to suit
European imperial interests. In this case, France recognized Britain’s
complete control of Egypt and Britain recognized France’s complete con-
trol of Morocco. As was the case with Tunisia at the Congress of Berlin,
the Entente took no account of the wishes of Egyptians or Moroccans.
Morocco’s fate was settled at a conference of European powers at
Algeciras in southern Spain in January 1906. France, backed by Britain,
was allowed to take the bulk of Morocco while the Spanish kept their
ports in the north.
In Morocco itself, the French ruled with much the same mix of con-
quest and colonization as they did elsewhere in North Africa. The sultan
became little more than a figurehead, while the power behind the throne
was the Resident-General, a French military man, Marshal Lyautey.
Under his command, lands belonging to the sultan and the tribes were
seized and made available for French settlers. And the French authorities
continued their relentless quest to convert the Muslim middle classes to
their way of life through the power of the French language and the allure
of French culture.
The conference at Algeciras was evidence of the Entente Cordiale

in action and showed what the British and the French could achieve in
pursuit of their interests when they presented a united front. Less than
a decade later, that Entente would take them into war on the same side.
Fighting alongside them in that war were the Russians. And they, too,
had interests and ambitions in the Arab world. Since the Ottoman con-
quest of Christian Constantinople on May 29, 1453, the Russian rul-
ers had considered themselves the new Caesars and Russia as the New
Rome. The Russians were just waiting for the right moment to seize
their destiny.
4
The Russian Empire

and the Arab World:
Religion, Royalty, and
the New Rome
In the summer of 1907, Britain and Russia signed a cooperation treaty.

The driving force behind it was much the same as the driving force
behind the Entente Cordiale between Britain and France three years ear-
lier: the need for each empire to recognize—and stay out of—the other’s
sphere of influence.
In the corridors of power in London, Russia’s recent intervention
in northern Persia and Afghanistan had set alarm bells ringing. These
regions were perilously close to India. And Britain, obsessive as ever
about securing all routes to the subcontinent, wanted to keep Russia out.
For London, a treaty was cheaper than a war. In Russia, defeat abroad
(the war with Japan in 1904–5) and political instability at home (the
revolution of 1905) led to a reassessment of the country’s strategic objec-
tives. Pragmatism won out. For St. Petersburg, too, a treaty was cheaper
than a war.
Yet there was more than politics to the Anglo-Russian relationship.
These two empires were family. Edward VII of England was related to
Russia’s Tsar Nicholas II and his wife, the tsarina, by marriage and blood.
To understand just how interrelated the royal houses of England and
Russia were, a quick detour through Denmark is needed.
It was thanks to Edward VII’s Danish wife that he was the tsar’s
uncle. Edward VII (r. 1901–10) was married to the beautiful Danish
princess, Alexandra, whose equally beautiful younger sister, Dagmar,
was married to Russia’s Alexander III (r. 1881–94). Their son and heir
was Tsar Nicholas II (r. 1894–1917).
But it was thanks to Edward VII’s own family that he was the tsarina’s
uncle. Tsar Nicholas II’s wife was Alix of Hesse, the daughter of a German
duke. However, when Nicholas married her, he married into more than
German royalty. He married into the British imperial family. Because Alix
was none other than Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, as Alix’s mother
was Victoria’s daughter, Princess Alice.
And if Edward’s nephew-by-marriage marrying his niece-by-blood
is not confusing enough, the long-term effects of these interdynastic
marriages ripple to this day. The small Danish royal house continued
to punch well above their weight, matrimonially speaking. Alexandra
and Dagmar’s brother, Prince William, later to become King George I
of Greece, married a Russian princess named Olga, and their grandson,
Philip, would later marry Britain’s future Queen Elizabeth II.
As for Alix herself, she was no ordinary member of Britain’s first fam-
ily. She was Queen Victoria’s favorite grandchild. Alix’s mother died when
Alix was very young and the queen took a close interest in her grand-
daughter’s upbringing. As a young adult, when Alix met and fell madly in
love with the future tsar, her grandmother was less than thrilled. Victoria
was worried—rightly, as it turned out—that Russia’s throne was less
secure than it looked and she had no desire for her darling granddaughter
to become a victim of the country’s political problems.
The queen’s arguments fell on deaf ears. Nicholas and Alix were
completely lost in love, and if Alix hesitated to commit, it was not
because of granny Victoria’s dire warnings about Russia’s politics. It
was Russia’s religion that made her dally. Marrying Nicholas meant
taking on the Orthodox faith, and Alix, as a German, was a devout
Lutheran. Love won out in the end, and Alix abandoned her Protestant
principles and embraced Russian Orthodoxy. And with all the zeal of
the convert, she became more Russian than the Russians and more
royal than their royals.
In Russia, royalty mattered because the tsars were so much more than
heads of state. In Russia, royalty and religion were inseparable. Which
meant that in Russia, the tsar was much more than a defender of the faith,
he was almost divine.1
Since 1453, when the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror achieved
the dream of generations of Muslims and claimed Constantinople for
THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE AND THE ARAB WORLD 41
Islam, Russian royalty took it upon themselves to become the last line
of defense for Orthodox Christianity against the seemingly unstop-
pable Muslim advance. Russia became Holy Russia. Moscow became
Byzantium reborn. And the grand dukes of Muscovy became the new
Caesars: the tsars.2
Ivan III (r. 1462–1505) consolidated Russia’s role as the New Rome
with one of the most symbolic marriages of the era. In 1472, he married
Sofia, the niece of Constantine, the last of the Byzantine emperors. The
adoption of the double-headed eagle, the symbol of Byzantium, as the
symbol of Russia underlined Moscow’s new mission.
In the four centuries from Ivan III to Nicholas II, Russia never lost sight
of its role as a sort of Holy Roman Empire for the Orthodox. As a result,
it never ceased to cast a covetous eye across the Black Sea at Constantine’s
city Constantinople, now Islam’s Istanbul. The mighty Catherine the
Great (r. 1762–96) went so far as to hatch a plan with her long-time lover
and advisor Prince Potemkin to bring the city under Russian rule. She
was so committed to the plan that she named her second-born grandson
Constantine in preparation for him becoming the city’s ruler. The plan,
in the end, came to nothing.3
Its failure did not stop Russia repeatedly going to war against the
Ottomans. And it was during Catherine’s reign that the Russians scored
one of their biggest and most significant successes against Turkish troops,
the effects of which are still felt today. For six years, from 1768 to 1774, the
two sides fought each other. For the Russians, the breakthrough came in
1771 when they occupied Crimea on the northern shore of the Black Sea.
The strategic importance of the province for Russia cannot be underes-
timated. It gave faraway St. Petersburg direct access to the Black Sea. All
that now stood between Russia and the warm-water ports and the trading
routes of the Mediterranean was Istanbul.
Which meant Russia had no intention of giving Crimea up. And still
does not. One of the most divisive issues facing modern Ukraine has
been whether to turn east toward Russia or west toward the European
Union. In February 2014, protestors in Ukraine’s capital Kiev chose
west, but for Crimea, in the east, the answer was different. Crimea’s
links with Russia are deep. During the Communist era, Crimea pro-
vided a naval base at Sevastopol for the Soviet fleet and, after the end
of the Soviet Union, the Russian Federation’s Black Sea Fleet continued
to be based in the port. Links between Crimea and Russia remained so
strong that the political crisis in Ukraine in the spring of 2014 led to
Russia reclaiming Crimea, a decision which the majority of Crimeans
and Russians (although not the rest of Ukraine or the West) enthusiasti-
cally endorsed.
That geopolitical connection between Crimea and Russia dates back to

Catherine the Great’s victory against the Turks in 1774. And in the treaty
that ended the war, the Treaty of Küçü k Kaynarca (1774), the Ottomans
lost not only Crimea to Russia but all of their provinces north of the Black
Sea. Until then, the Black Sea had been the sultan’s sea. It was completely
surrounded by Ottoman lands. After 1774, this was no longer the case.
Emboldened by success, Russia set about encircling the Black Sea either
directly with conquered territory or indirectly through friendly satellites.
In 1783, Russia annexed Crimea outright and large numbers of Russians
were settled there in a bid to alter the peninsula’s population in favor of
Russia, a policy later adopted by Stalin.
Russia’s aim was nothing less than to push the sultan out of Europe
and reclaim Istanbul. Not only would that strike a blow for Russia’s faith,
it would guarantee the safe delivery of her food. Russia’s grain shipments
were vulnerable because they came through the Bosphorus and the Black
Sea. The tsars could not afford to have those routes cut off. Throughout
the nineteenth century, Russia steadily encroached on more and more
territory around the Black Sea. Even defeat in the Crimean War against
the combined forces of the British, French, and Ottomans (1853–6) did
not stop Moscow’s ambitions.
In the battle for the Black Sea, Moscow had a secret weapon. A clause
in the 1774 Treaty of Küçü k Kaynarca helped Russia achieve an influence
in the Ottoman Empire and, by extension, in the Arab world that few
could have foreseen at the time but which fundamentally altered rela-
tions between East and West. Following Russia’s victory, St. Petersburg
wanted to reassure Muslims who lived in Crimea and who wished to go
on living there that Russia would respect their freedom of worship. The
Russian authorities, therefore, allowed Sultan Abdulhamid I (r. 1774–89)
and his successors to call themselves “Caliph of all the Muslims.”4 The
title “caliph” dated back to 632 when it was adopted by the Prophet
Muhammad’s first successor, Abu Bakr. Since then, it was used for cen-
turies by Muslim rulers from Damascus to Baghdad and from Cordoba
to Cairo. But it was not currently in use. The Ottoman ruler was a sul-
tan, from the Arabic word for power. Abdulhamid’s ability to use the
title caliph was largely ceremonial and changed little in practical terms
for Muslims.
Paradoxically, it was to have a major impact on the lives of the many
Orthodox Christians in the sultan’s own empire. The Ottoman Empire in
the 1700s and 1800s was as much a European empire as a Middle Eastern
one. In 1683, Turkish troops penetrated so far into Europe that they
reached the gates of Vienna. By the time of the 1774 treaty, the Ottomans
still controlled much of south-western Europe: modern-day Greece,
Bulgaria, Romania, and the Balkans. And the majority of people in these
regions were Orthodox Christians.
Now that the sultan-caliph had been given a nominal role in the
lives of Muslims outside his territorial jurisdiction, the Russian tsarina
claimed the same role in the lives of Orthodox Christians outside her ter-
ritorial jurisdiction. The diplomatic-speak of the treaty was deliberately
vague, open to any number of interpretations, but Russia’s power was on
the rise and Catherine the Great knew how to exploit the treaty to get
what she wanted.
From then on, Russia became the patron of Orthodox Christians in
the Ottoman Empire, both in Europe and the Arab world. Given that
Orthodox Christians were the majority Christian community in many
parts of the Ottoman Empire, Russia’s position as their protector gave the
tsars a huge platform to interfere in Istanbul’s affairs.
As the nineteenth century progressed and Russia’s power grew and
Istanbul’s declined, that platform grew bigger. As for the Orthodox
Christians themselves, they welcomed Russia’s protection and patronage.
In the European parts of the Ottoman Empire, the Greeks, Serbs, Bulgars,
and Romanians used it to further their dreams of independent statehood.
Russia encouraged them, seeing any new Slav or Orthodox state as a gain
for them and a loss for the Ottomans.
In the Arab part of the Ottoman Empire, Russia’s influence was
warmly welcomed by the Orthodox community. Russian royalty built
churches for the faithful in the birthplace of the faith, Jerusalem.
Tsars maintained close links with the famous Orthodox monastery St.
Catherine’s in the Sinai, said to be built on the very place where Moses
received the Ten Commandments. And in Orthodox homes across
Syria, the tsar’s picture could be seen hanging on the wall alongside
religious icons. 5
That connection with Russia endures to this day. Moscow continues to
place Syria within its sphere of influence and that influence has been clear
since the wars started in Syria in 2011. Not only does Moscow speak of
the plight of the country’s Orthodox Christians, but the Kremlim has an
authority with the Asad regime in Damascus that no modern-day Great
Power does.
Yet in spite of Russia’s military strength and diplomatic adroitness,
Russia’s greatest impact on the Arab world came about in a way that was
never intended.
Nineteenth-century Russia was home to over five million Jews. And
nineteenth-century Russia was not a good place to be a Jew. Jews were
restricted to living in the Pale of Settlement in western Russia. They
were shut out of the state education system and subject to professional
discrimination. Even worse, in 1827, under Nicholas I (r. 1825–55),

Jewish men in the imperial army were liable to a staggering 25 years of
military service.
Entitled to no legal protection whatsoever, Jews in Russia were subject
to the mood swings of whichever tsar happened to be in power, which
meant the rules could change at any time and for any given reason.6
Disaster struck Russia’s Jews when Tsar Alexander II (r. 1855–81) was
killed in 1881 after a bomb attack. Several of the tsar’s attackers had Jewish
names and the Jewish community as a whole were blamed. To make mat-
ters worse, the new tsar, Alexander III, passed a series of laws in May
1882, which effectively let the police take whatever action they wanted
against Russian Jews. The attacks on Jews in 1881–2, known as pogroms,
were on a horrific scale.
Russian Jews were no strangers to persecution, but what made these
attacks worse than anything they had experienced before was the
degree to which many Russians completely ignored what was going
on. People looked the other way as Jewish homes were looted, Jewish
women were raped, and Jewish men were murdered. For many Jews, this
complacency—or complicity—made them reconsider their position in
Russia. As a result, 1882 saw one of the biggest migrations of Jews in his-
tory as hundreds of thousands fled Russia to escape this persecution.
Most set sail for a new life in the New World. The more adventurous,
the more religious, and the more desperate set sail for the old one. The
Jewish Return to Palestine had begun. Years later, Russia, reborn as the
Soviet Union, would be one of the first countries to officially recognize
the State of Israel.
There had always been a Jewish presence in Palestine, especially in the

Jewish Holy Cities of Hebron, Jerusalem, Safad, and Tiberias.
Neither the exile to Babylon nor the destruction of the temple in
Jerusalem had broken the bond between Jews and their sacred cities. As
well as these locally born Jews, many Jews from the Diaspora had found
their way to their Holy Land over the centuries. But they were small in
number and lived as much as possible within the confines of their own
community.
In the nineteenth century, Palestine was a province of the Ottoman
Empire. Islamic since the 630s, Ottoman since 1516, the majority com-
munity in Palestine were Arab Muslims. Christian Arabs were the larg-
est minority. Under Islamic law, Jews and Christians are considered
“People of the Book” (Ahl al-Kitab in Arabic). They are believers in God
who have received their own holy book: the Torah in the case of the Jews,
the Gospels in the case of the Christians. As such, they are entitled to
respect and legal protection. They are not considered equal to Muslims,
but their status as People of the Book gives them a legally guaranteed
place in Islamic society. While life has not always been plain sailing for
Jews or Christians in the Muslim world—over the years, periodic bouts
of communal tension have resulted in the death of members of minor-
ity communities—for Russian Jews arriving in Ottoman Palestine after
the pogroms, their status as a protected community provided a safety
net against the sort of state-sponsored persecution they had faced in
tsarist Russia.7
The 1882 exodus of Jews from Russia to Palestine became known as
the First Aliyah, or migration. The word comes from the Hebrew verb
“to go up to higher ground” because for Jews moving to the Holy Land
is seen as something good, something to aspire to. (Conversely, emigrat-
ing from it is seen as the reverse and comes from the Hebrew verb “to
go down.”) The numbers of Jewish immigrants were not on a scale that
would significantly alter the population balance in Ottoman Palestine,
but the migration tapped into a broader political trend that would have
serious repercussions for the region: nationalism.
While the pogroms were happening in tsarist Russia, a well-heeled,
well-connected young man from a well-off family in Budapest was study-
ing for a law degree in Vienna. This young man—who now has a city on
Israel’s Mediterranean coast named after him—was Theodor Herzl.
The urbane and sophisticated Herzl was a world away from the arche-
typal religious Jew. Yet he, more than anyone else in the late nineteenth
century, articulated the case for Jews to be considered a nation and, as
such, to be given a national home. Herzl and those who shared his views
argued that Jews had a collective, communal identity in the same way
other peoples did. The nineteenth century had already seen the Germans
and the Italians form their own nation-states, while the Greeks, the Serbs,
the Bulgarians, and the Romanians had secured their independence.
Why, argued Herzl, should the Jews be any different?
The difficulty for Herzl and his fellow Zionists was that the new
nation-states of the nineteenth century were formed by people who
already lived on the land that later became their nation. The Jews did not.
And the land they wanted—Eretz Israel—was already inhabited. But Jews
believed their historic and religious connection to Israel tied them to that
land more than any other. They also believed that persecution, the like of
which they were facing on a daily basis in tsarist Russia, made their case
all the more urgent.
It was not just Jews who had a problem with tsarist Russia. A num-
ber of British politicians did too. Many members of parliament were not
happy about Britain’s alliance with Russia, and the harsh treatment of
Russia’s Jews had a lot to do with their unease. Even though the connec-
tion between Britain and Russia’s royal families was close, there was little
or no common ground politically between the two empires. In one, the
tsar was an autocrat whose word was law. In the other, the king was little
more than a country squire, a figurehead who spoke the words his gov-
ernment gave him. The tsar had political powers a medieval monarch
would have envied. The king had no political power at all. The tsar had
to answer to no one but God. The king had to answer to everyone from
parliament to the people.
If the British and Russians were strange bedfellows, the French and the
Russians were even stranger. Yet in 1893, France and Russia concluded
an alliance. France was the spiritual home of anyone longing for liberty,
equality, and fraternity. It was also a country where kings and emperors
faced exile if they were lucky or the guillotine if they were not. Russia, by
contrast, had only recently (1861) emancipated the millions of serfs who
farmed the land, many of whom still lived in such abject poverty, their
lives were little more than indentured slavery. For revolutionary, republi-
can, rationalist France to make an alliance with autocratic, authoritarian,
Orthodox Russia surprised many. But Paris had her reasons. Following
the fiasco of the Franco-Prussian war in 1870–1, France desperately
needed allies.
That alliance was the start of a diplomatic realignment across Europe.
Britain and France fought against Russia in the Crimean War in the
1850s, but now the three empires were coming together. The 1893 Franco-
Russian alliance, the 1904 Anglo-French Entente Cordiale, and the 1907
Anglo-Russian alliance put all three empires into the same camp: the
Triple Entente.
The Triple Entente was an example of political pragmatism of the first
order. It was an alliance born out of shared interests rather than shared
values. And it was based on each country’s deep desire to defend their
spheres of interest, not only from each other but from the latecomer to
Europe’s imperial party: the bold, brash, and increasingly ambitious
Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany.
5
The German Empire and

the Arab World: Family
Feuds and Eastern
Ambitions
For Kaiser Wilhelm II, the personal and the political were one and the
same. And the reasons for it went back to his childhood.
Wilhelm was born of a union of two of the greatest powers in Europe.
His father Frederick was heir to the Prussian throne. His mother Victoria
(Vicky) was Britain’s Princess Royal, the first-born child of Queen
Victoria and Prince Albert. Frederick married Vicky when she was only
17. Behind the show and ceremony of their royal wedding was a very stra-
tegic political goal: Vicky’s parents wanted to use her position as wife of
the future Prussian king to cement relations between the two countries.
Vicky’s children would, after all, have a foot in both camps. They would
be as much British as they were German.
In 1859, when only 18 years old, Vicky was pregnant with her first
child. It was a difficult and dangerous birth. The baby was in the breech
position. His arms were above his head, and there was no way to move him
into the correct birthing position without causing serious harm either
to him or his mother. Under normal circumstances, doctors might have
opted for a caesarean even though that would have meant almost certain
death for the mother. But these were not normal circumstances. Vicky
was a royal mother. Born into one royal house, married into another, no
doctor could take risks with her life.
The only remaining option was to force the baby’s arms into position.
But the cost of doing that was permanent disability for the young prince.
Wilhelm was never able to use his left arm.
Vicky was distraught. The role of a royal wife was to produce healthy
heirs, and she considered Wilhelm’s disability her personal failure. Her
family’s behavior did little to persuade her otherwise. Showing an atti-
tude that was breathtakingly callous, her father-in-law referred to his new
grandson as “defective” and wondered if congratulations were really in
order on the birth of such a child.
None of this should have mattered. But in nineteenth-century royal
culture, it did. Ill health was nothing short of a catastrophe. (And
remained so into the twentieth century: in England, King George V’s
son, John, born in 1905, suffered from epilepsy and was locked away
from public view throughout his short life.) The culture of royalty was
outdoorsy and involved men doing manly things like hunting, shooting,
and riding. Royal culture was intrinsically martial and involved kings
and kaisers donning uniforms to lead the troops on parade. All of these
activities would be extremely difficult for the new German prince. And
as European royalty, unlike Muslim monarchs, followed the principle of
primogeniture, there was nothing anyone could do about it. Wilhelm was
the first-born son and he would inherit the throne.
The stakes for Wilhelm were raised even higher in 1871 when the vari-
ous German states united to become the German Empire. Germany was
now a central European powerhouse stretching from France in the west
to Russia in the east. Wilhelm would not grow up to be a king; he would
grow up to be an emperor.
The combined effect of all these pressures was to push Vicky away
from her first-born child. Barely an adult herself, she lacked the experi-
ence to deal with the situation. The young Wilhelm needed sympathy
and understanding from his mother and he did not get it. Throughout
his childhood, his mother seemed to be almost in a state of denial about
his disability. She tried all sorts of ways to make him use his arm. When
Wilhelm showed signs of leaning too heavily to one side, she had him
spend hours at a time in a metal cage in an effort to straighten him out.
Little wonder, then, that Wilhelm grew up emotionally scarred. He
had a revenge of sorts on his mother when he became kaiser in 1888. He
humiliated her by confiscating all official papers in her possession, as if
she were not to be trusted with the affairs of state. Vicky’s brother Prince
Albert (England’s future Edward VII) never forgave him for it and har-
bored a life-long dislike of his nephew.
The loneliness of his childhood made Wilhelm impulsive and subject
to mood swings. He could change his mind almost as soon as he made a
decision. Perhaps the most psychologically interesting of European rul-
ers of his era, he was not the most psychologically stable. And he was
often his own worst enemy. An authoritarian streak masked his unmet
THE GERMAN EMPIRE AND THE ARAB WORLD 49
craving for understanding and he could be cruel to the point of sadistic.

A prig in public and a hedonist at home, he forced members of his inner
circle to dress up in women’s clothes and dance for him. Rumors swirled
about the extravagances of his private life. He was married twice and
had a string of mistresses. Wilhelm himself was only too aware of his
emotional failings. In middle age, he confided to a close friend that there
was something missing in him that other people had.
This close friend, Eulenberg, who was gay, was outed by the German
press in 1908. Instead of standing by his friend, the kaiser caved to con-
servative public opinion and abandoned him. But the loneliness caused
by separation from one of his closest friends cost Wilhelm dearly. He suf-
fered a nervous breakdown.
Isolation was often an issue for the kaiser. He all too often felt like an
outsider among Europe’s royal elite. The British and Russian royal fami-
lies holidayed together every summer in Denmark, but Wilhelm was not
invited. The Danish wives of the English king and the Russian tsar never
forgave Prussia for invading Denmark in 1864, even though Wilhelm
himself was only a child at the time.
All of these slights, real or imagined, had political consequences. As
kaiser, Wilhelm’s personal life profoundly colored his political outlook,
especially when it came to Britain. In the same way he both loved and
loathed his mother, he both respected and reviled her home country. And
just as he yearned for his mother’s acceptance, he also yearned for the
acceptance of his British cousins.
When he got neither, he took Germany on a different course. If
Wilhelm’s royal relatives in Britain did not respect him as an equal, they
would have to take him seriously as a rival.
Germany was a young nation. Kaiser Wilhelm himself was older than
the country he led. The unification of the various independent German
states into the German Empire in 1871 unleashed a creative energy that
launched the new nation on a trajectory of growth wholly different from
anything it had known before.
The statistics speak for themselves.
Between 1870 and 1914, Germany’s population doubled. Industrial
output quadrupled. Illiteracy was virtually wiped out. University enrol-
ment rocketed. German university students outnumbered their British
counterparts by nearly seven to one. Thanks to the German education
system’s mix of Gymnasien (academic schools), Realgymnasien (technical
schools), and Technische Hochschulen (technical academies), Germany

quite literally progressed through technology.1
This increase in Germany’s economic power had a knock-on effect on
the country’s military prowess. Imperial Germany followed Napoleon’s
example and had an army of the people: a conscript army. The coun-
try’s population rose from 33 million to 65 million in the period from
1870 to 1914, which meant a vast increase in the number of men under
arms. As a result, the German army was the biggest in Europe. It was
more than double the size of France’s and more than ten times the size of
Britain’s. For its part, France continued its Napoleonic tradition of hav-
ing a conscript army, but as its population remained steady at 40 million,
it could not compete with the German increase. As for Britain, its army
was made up of volunteers, a fact which always put it at a numerical
disadvantage.
It was not just the German army that rapidly increased in size. In 1897,
Berlin took the decision to build a fleet of battleships. Little over a decade
later, Germany’s fleet had almost tripled in size (from 14 to 40) and was
second only to Britain’s, a state of affairs which seriously worried London.
A powerful German navy threatened Britain’s control of the seas and, by
extension, Britain’s far-flung empire.2
And that was the heart of the matter. The kaiser simultaneously
admired and envied Britain’s empire. He respected Britain’s standing
as an imperial nation, but he wanted Germany to be every bit as Great
as Britain, if not Greater. All of which meant Germany had to have an
empire, because, in the nineteenth century, empire was the measure of
international power. No power could become a Great Power without one.
But by the time Germany amassed the economic and military resources
necessary to acquire one, all the best land had been taken.
Britain’s empire included some of the most strategic shipping routes
in the world and some of the most resource-rich land. France, too, had
an enormous empire that took in nearly all of north-west Africa as well
as chunks of south-east Asia. And Russia’s territory stretched from
Germany’s doorstep in Europe right across Asia to the Pacific Ocean.
Germany did succeed in conquering a number of territories: South-West
Africa in 1884, Togoland the same year, and East Africa in 1886. But these
conquests were before Wilhelm became kaiser in 1888, and he was eager
to see Germany expand its territories under his leadership and take its
place among the world’s Great Powers.
In this, as with so much else in Kaiser Wilhelm’s life, the personal
influenced the political. Just as Wilhelm felt like the perennial outsider,
the sidelined prince who was not invited on family holidays, the cousin
who had to try harder than everyone else to be accepted by his royal rela-
tives, he also felt his country had to try harder to secure its standing on
the world stage.
Germany under Wilhelm was outpacing Britain economically, indus-
trially, and militarily. British forces had not fought a battle on western
European soil since Waterloo in 1815 when, alongside Prussian forces,
they defeated Napoleon. Britain’s other foray into war in Europe in the
nineteenth century was in Crimea in the 1850s, a war remembered less in
England for its military exploits than for the nursing skills of one Florence
Nightingale. Britain’s military campaigns during this era took place over-
seas. For the most part, they were unequal contests pitting the advanced
weaponry of the developed world against indigenous people who had
been happily minding their own business for generations. In stark con-
trast to Britain, Germany had taken on and soundly defeated a European
equal in the war against France in 1870–1. Yet for all Germany’s economic
strengths and military successes, the country still lagged behind Britain,
France, and Russia in international affairs.
Consequently, Germany looked elsewhere to exert its influence.
In 1889, Kaiser Wilhelm visited the Ottoman capital to meet Sultan
Abdulhamid II and strengthen ties between Berlin and Istanbul. The
kaiser was the only European ruler the sultan ever met. The two had
much to discuss. The Ottomans were in need of European technology
and the Germans were happy to provide it. The culmination of this
cooperation was to be the Berlin–Baghdad railway. Railways were rev-
olutionizing traditional trade routes and travel patterns, and the con-
struction of an overland route linking the German capital, the Ottoman
capital, and the former capital of the Arab world was a way to under-
mine Britain’s influence in the region by offering a land alternative to
Britain’s sea routes through Suez, the Red Sea, and the Persian Gulf.
Work began in 1888. The kaiser’s first visit to Istanbul followed swiftly
afterwards. 3
Wilhelm’s second visit to the Ottoman Empire saw him visit Jerusalem
as well as Istanbul. Dressed like a Crusader of old, the kaiser rode into
the Holy City on the afternoon of October 29, 1898, on a white horse
that matched his white uniform. The pomp and power of his visit might
have been intended to invoke great German Crusaders of the past, like
Frederick Barbarossa, but the irony was that the kaiser was no unwel-
come infidel invader. He enjoyed good relations with the city’s ruler, the
Ottoman sultan, and was so well thought of by the Ottomans that he was
given the nickname “Hajji Wilhelm.”. If any ruler in Europe might be
inclined to think of the sultan as an ally, it was Kaiser Wilhelm.
In March 1905, the kaiser was again riding through an Arab city on
horseback. This time, it was Tangier in Morocco. France was in the pro-
cess of conquering Morocco, but the outcome was not yet finalized. Enter
the kaiser who turned up in the port city on a German cruise ship and
proceeded to speak up for the sultan and for Moroccan independence.
His real aim was to stop France securing one of the most strategic spots
on the North African coast. Morocco’s long Atlantic coastline on its
west and the Mediterranean shore on its north give it a unique position
on the corner of Africa and at the gateway to Europe. A country with a
large navy could use it as a forward base to control Atlantic sea routes.
The kaiser saw his chance. And for a period during 1905, all-out war
between France and Germany seemed a very real possibility. Morocco’s
future was eventually sealed at the Algeciras conference in Spain in 1906
when Britain and Russia backed France’s claim to the country and left
Germany isolated.
The Moroccan crisis of 1905 showed the degree to which European
rivalries were being played out on territory outside Europe. This rivalry
reduced a country like Morocco, with a civilization and culture stretch-
ing back centuries, to little more than a square on the chessboard of the
Great Game.
The crisis also showed how close to the brink of war European elites
were prepared to go in the quest for empire. And regardless of the risks,
that quest continued. The Moroccan crisis of 1905 was not the last one.
Just over five years later, another one loomed.
This time, the flashpoint was the port of Agadir on Morocco’s Atlantic
coast. Nowadays, Agadir is a major tourist destination thanks to the star-
tling beauty of its long, unspoilt beaches. The French, in particular, flock
there in tens of thousands during the month of August. In 1911, it was the
German navy that paid a visit when the warship Panther suddenly turned
up in port. Officially, the reason was to protect German citizens from
local unrest. In reality, the Germans were trying to gain leverage over the
French. Once again, they failed. Once again, the kaiser backed down in
the face of British support for France.
The two Moroccan crises showed how important the system of impe-
rial alliances had become in international affairs. In 1905, and again in
1911, France had been able to withstand German pressure because Paris
did not stand alone. Britain and Russia were hovering in support in the
wings. That threat alone was enough to make the kaiser pause for thought.
He might have been confident about Germany’s ability to fight France.

But fighting on three fronts was a different matter. And in 1911, it was not
an idea the kaiser was ready to explore.
That sense of Germany as a nation sandwiched between France on
one side and Russia on the other had long been an issue for Berlin. It
was at the heart of German foreign policy during the two decades of
Bismarck’s chancellorship (1871–90). To strengthen Germany’s position,
Bismarck made alliances with Germany’s neighbors: the Dual Alliance
with Austro-Hungary in 1879, which became the Triple Alliance when
Italy joined in 1882. But these treaties did nothing to address the problem
of Germany’s geographical vulnerability to encirclement by France and
Russia. If anything, they achieved the reverse. They pushed Paris and St.
Petersburg closer together out of fear that a gigantic Germanic bloc was
forming in the center of the continent.
In contrast to France and Russia, Britain had no land borders with
Germany and was less vulnerable to fears of an invasion. In many ways,
Germany seemed a more natural ally for Britain than either France or
Russia. For one, Anglo-German history did not have the imperial bag-
gage of Anglo-French history. From the Battle of the Nile in 1798 to the
Battle of Fashoda in the Sudan a century later, the nineteenth century
was a tale of Paris and London fighting like cat and dog for control of the
world. Yet this period also saw Paris and London come together when
it was mutually beneficial, as happened during the Crimean War in the
1850s and in Egypt in the 1880s.
That coming together happened again in the early twentieth century—
helped, paradoxically, by the very intensity of Anglo-French rivalry that
ended up becoming a bargaining chip in their negotiations. Germany, for
all its economic and military might, still lacked an empire comparable
to the British or French empires and, therefore, had no such bargaining
power. Britain and France understood they had too much to lose by going
to war against each other. By recognizing each other’s spheres of influ-
ences, both kept what they already had. They might not gain any territory
at the other’s expense, but they would not lose any either.
And, perhaps most importantly of all, they could put up a united front
against imperial newcomers like Germany and Italy. Italy had united
as a kingdom in 1870, a year before German unification, and harbored
similar dreams of empire. In 1911, Italian forces invaded Libya in a bid
to build a new Roman Empire in the southern Mediterranean. But their
ambition overreached their grasp. It took them nearly 20 years to conquer
the country.
After the Agadir Incident in 1911, it looked as if Bismarck’s fears of
encirclement might become a reality for Germany. Luckily for the kaiser,
Germany enjoyed good relations with the empire whose lands were coveted
by London, Paris, and St. Petersburg alike. Dismissed by Tsar Nicholas I
of Russia as “The Sick Man of Europe,” the Ottoman Empire’s power had
been in decline for years. Even so, the Ottoman sultan still held sway over
large parts of the Arab world—that critical land mass between Europe
and India. And so, Germany began to woo Istanbul.
6
The Ottoman Empire:

How the Arab World
Was Won and Lost
The Ottoman Empire was older than any of the European empires. Its
origins went back to the dying days of the thirteenth century when an
obscure Turkish tribal leader called Osman had a dream.
In Osman’s dream, the moon leapt out of a holy man’s breast and set-
tled in Osman’s. A tree then grew from Osman’s navel and became so big
that an entire ecosystem came to life under its shade. Mountains rose up.
Rivers flowed. Plants grew. When he woke up, a bewildered Osman went
to the holy man he saw in his dream and asked him what it all meant.
The holy man was in no doubt. God had chosen Osman for divine favor.
Osman and his sons would rule an empire. And to show how much he
believed in his own power to predict the future, the holy man arranged
for his daughter to marry Osman. The Ottoman dynasty was born.1
The reality of empire-building was much less mystic and much more
mundane. But the fusion of faith and family at the heart of the dream
did become the basis of Ottoman power. Along with one other critical
element: fighting. The Ottoman Empire was born on the battlefield. At
the turn of the fourteenth century, Osman was one of a number of tribal
chiefs competing for control of what was essentially a lawless area south
of the Black Sea in modern Turkey. He started with a stronghold several
hundred miles south of the city of Iznik, famous to Christians the world
over as Nicaea, home of the Nicene Creed.
From there, Osman’s rule spread. By the end of the fourteenth century,
Ottoman power was into its fourth generation and the family held much
of modern Turkey and south-eastern Europe.
And so it continued. This was a conquest state whose rulers were

enriched, whose armies were financed, and whose state coffers were filled
by the spoils of war. And those armies were unstoppable. The march west-
ward into Europe was relentless. The Ottoman state was a Muslim empire
built on the soil of Christian Europe. Byzantine Constantinople became
Ottoman Istanbul. Budapest, Belgrade, and Bucharest became Ottoman
cities. The Black Sea became an Ottoman stronghold.
The Ottoman armies were not content to fight on just one front. They
turned their attention eastward to take on their fellow Muslims: the
Mamluk rulers of Syria and Egypt. The Mamluks fared no better against
the Ottomans than the Christians of Europe. In 1516, the Syrian region
became an Ottoman province and Jerusalem became an Ottoman city. A
year later, it was the turn of Egypt. The Mamluk military oligarchs had
ruled Egypt since 1250, but those centuries of power collapsed almost
overnight in the face of superior Ottoman firepower and tactics.
For the Ottoman Sultan Selim I (r. 1512–20), Cairo brought a special
treasure: the Muslim Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina. The Mamluks
ruled these cities from their Egyptian powerbase and, now, they too fell
under the sultan’s sway. Eight generations on from the obscure tribal chief
who dreamt of empire, the dynasty he founded had conquered the city of
the Caesars, the city of Jesus, and the sacred cities of Islam.
Up to this point, the majority of the Ottoman conquests were in
Europe, which meant the majority of the sultan’s subjects were Christian.
The sixteenth century saw that change as more and more Muslim lands
were conquered by the armies from Istanbul. From the foothold in Egypt
on the southern shores of the Mediterranean, Ottoman rule spread west
across North Africa. Algiers became an Ottoman province in 1529, Tripoli
in 1551, Tunis in 1574. Ottoman authority also spread east to encircle the
Arabian peninsula. The port of Aden became a satellite of the sultan in
1547, Muscat in 1551, Yemen in 1568. And it was not just coastal cities that
attracted the Ottomans’ attention. They took the inland city of Baghdad
from the Safavid rulers of Persia in 1534, then underlined their domi-
nance of the Iraqi region by pressing to the sea and taking the port city
of Basra in 1546. And on they went: into Arabia and down the eastern
coast as far as the island of Bahrain in the Persian Gulf. By the end of the
sixteenth century, the heart of the Arab world was theirs.2
To rule the provinces of this vast empire stretching from Budapest to
Bahrain, the Ottomans usually relied on local men. Even former rulers
defeated by Ottoman armies could find themselves retaining their posi-
tion as long as they made sure taxes were paid and Ottoman sovereignty
was acknowledged. The further a province was from the center of power,
the more autonomy it enjoyed.
THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE 57
The very center of power, however, was reserved exclusively for the
Ottoman family. The dynastic principle was popular among Muslim
monarchs, even though it had no foundation in Islam. The Prophet
Muhammad died in 632 without nominating any successor, let alone one
from his own family. His immediate successors, known as the Rightly
Guided Caliphs (r. 632–60), followed the Prophet’s example and were
equally averse to the dynastic principle.
The passage of power from father to son made its first appearance
in the Muslim world several decades after the Prophet’s death when the
caliph Muawiya (r. 661–80) appointed his son Yazid (r. 680–4) to succeed
him. The decision was not well received in the wider community because
monarchy was an alien concept in Islam. Muslims believe majesty belongs
to God alone. There was also the problem of Yazid himself. A gambler
and a playboy, only his father seemed to have thought him the most suit-
able candidate to lead the Muslim community. His appointment as heir
led to civil war. In the end, Yazid and his Umayyad family prevailed, not
so much because of the power of their ideas but because of the unity of
their family and the power of their army.3
It was a valuable lesson for the fledgling dynasty and for every dynasty
that followed. A ruling family could not survive unless it was united and
had a loyal army. As a result, every ruling family since the Umayyads
ruled through an alliance of monarchy and military. The Ottomans were
no exception.
Where they differed from their predecessors was how they chose which
son should succeed and what happened to the sidelined sons. It came
down to a problem of numbers. Islam allows a man to have four wives
simultaneously. Given that divorce is incredibly straightforward—a man
has only to say “I divorce you” three times in the presence of witnesses—a
man may end up marrying many times during his life. Added to this was
the complication of concubines. Sultans and caliphs kept a harem and
many of their concubines became the mothers of royal babies.
The consequence of a sultan having so many women in his life was that
he often had an unusually high number of sons. The first king of Saudi
Arabia, for example, is said to have had 42 sons. (No one seems to have
bothered to count the number of daughters—believed to be around 125.)4
As there is no principle of primogeniture in Islam, all royal sons are tech-
nically eligible to rule. So, how did a ruler choose which son would succeed
him? Previous dynasties left it to the ruler himself to decide. Sometimes,
this system worked. Sometimes, it did not. Sometimes, sidelined siblings
banded together against the favored son and took their differences to the
battlefield, dragging the community into civil war. The Ottomans took
a different route. They turned the succession into a contest, a kind of
survival-of-the-fittest for royal sons. Whoever was strong enough to seize

power earned the right to exercise it.
On the face of it, this system was fairer than relying solely on the whim
of a ruler. But it also held the potential to be enormously divisive for the
ruling family. In the beginning, seizing power meant little more than
being the first to enter the capital after the sultan’s death. But as the empire
grew and the prizes of power became greater, that was no longer enough
and Sultan Murad I (r. 1362–89) took an extraordinary step. (This was the
same Murad who met his death at the hands of a Serb soldier in the Battle
of Kosovo Polje in 1389, the anniversary of which was commemorated by
Serbs every year on June 28.) When Murad became sultan, he decided to
eliminate the competition. He killed every one of his brothers. In one fell
swoop, he wiped out any threat from his family to his rule.
To the shocked public, this sibling slaughter was passed off as “God’s
will.” As Ottoman power suffered no adverse consequences, the prac-
tice was judged not to have incurred God’s wrath and was continued.
Fratricide remained official Ottoman policy until 1595 when Mehmed
III (r. 1595–1603) came to power. The new sultan had 19 brothers, some
of whom were very young children. But that did not spare them the grisly
fate that awaited a dead sultan’s spare sons. All 19 were killed. The sight
of so many coffins, particularly the small ones of the very young princes,
provoked such a wave of weeping and wailing on the streets of Istanbul
that Mehmed had to abandon the policy. From then on, power passed to
the most senior member of the Ottoman family, regardless of whether or
not he was up to the job.5
Not that anyone in the inner circles of power was anticipating any
problems for the Ottoman state. At the end of the sixteenth century, the
Ottomans were one of the wealthiest and most powerful families on the
planet. When the Arab world joined their domains, they were masters
of the Mediterranean, rulers of the Red Sea, and guardians of the trade
routes between East and West. Many of the goods traveling from India
and China to the markets of Europe had to pass through Ottoman lands
and were liable to Ottoman taxes. It was a huge and enormously lucrative
market and it provided one of the pillars of the Ottoman economy.
But it was all about to change.
The first sign that the tide was beginning to turn against the Ottomans
was the war with the Habsburg Empire in 1593–1606. For 13 long years,
the Ottomans fought the Austrians and for no obvious gain. They
scored no significant victories. They conquered no new territory. They

won no tangible booty.
For an empire built on the back of conquest, this was a disaster. The
war cost so much and delivered so little, it caused a debt crisis. In 1600,
the Ottoman currency, the akche, had to be devalued to finance the
empire’s debt.6 Worse, though, than what the war inflicted on the impe-
rial finances was what the war revealed about the empire’s military. The
Ottomans, so long used to setting the military pace, were now lagging
behind their European enemies in tactics and technology. Their cavalry
was simply no match for Austrian artillery.
For the Ottomans, it was not just on the battlefield that things were
moving against them. The sixteenth century saw a seismic shift in trad-
ing patterns, which fundamentally redefined who held power in the world
and why. It was all down to two men and their boats: Spain’s Christopher
Columbus and Portugal’s Vasco da Gama. And between them, they
inflicted serious damage on the Ottoman economy.
When Christopher Columbus set sail for India and discovered America
by accident, the focus of the global economy shifted from the Old World
to the New. When Vasco da Gama reached India in 1498 via the Cape of
Good Hope, transport of the enormously profitable Indian spice trade
shifted from land to sea. When the impact of these shifts became clear, it
was all too obvious who benefited and who lost out. The Ottomans played
no part in the voyages of discovery and made no conquests in the Americas.
They spent the sixteenth century consolidating their Mediterranean base,
while Spain and Portugal became super-rich on the wealth of the New
World. That wealth, and those sea routes around Africa, enabled Portugal
to challenge Ottoman control of the Persian Gulf. They never succeeded;
a stalemate was reached, but for the Ottomans it was an alarming sign of
European encroachment into their sphere of influence.
There would be more encroachments. The sixteenth century saw the
rise of the sea-faring empires. Countries in northern Europe, such as
Britain and the Netherlands, took advantage of their easy access to the
Atlantic to set sail for new worlds and the wealth to be found in them.
They set up trading companies (the English East India Company in 1600
and the Dutch East India Company in 1602) to finance their commercial
ventures in India, a move which brought them into direct competition
with the Ottomans for control of the trade routes between East and West.
Suddenly, the Ottomans were fighting enemies in the East who were from
the West. British interest in India was further piqued when Charles II
(r. 1660–85) married the Portuguese princess Catherine of Braganza in
1661, and as part of her dowry, she brought the port of Bombay (now
Mumbai).7
The Ottoman Empire possessed a huge internal market and, through

the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the very size of this market
served as a buffer against external changes and helped Istanbul main-
tain its place in the world. After 1683, however, no one could deny the
Ottoman Empire was no longer a conquest state, ever on the offensive for
new territories, ever confident of victory. That year saw the second, and
final, Ottoman attempt to take Vienna. In defeat, the retreat became a
rout. From then on, the Ottomans focused on holding what they had.
But even that proved increasingly difficult. Europe’s empires were
imperialist, expansionist, and ultraambitious. In the war of 1768–74,
Catherine the Great’s Russia dealt a death blow to Istanbul’s control of
the lands north of the Black Sea. Two decades later, it was the turn of
Napoleon Bonaparte to stake his claim to part of the Ottoman Empire
when he invaded Egypt. French rule was short-lived (1798–1801), but the
Ottomans could not eject the revolutionary French forces by themselves
and had to call in the British to help. The British were only too happy to
do so. With huge swathes of India under their control, the British had
even less desire to see Napoleon conquer Cairo than the Ottomans did. It
risked bringing him too close to the subcontinent for London’s comfort.
The British preferred to defend an unlikely ally rather than see an impe-
rial rival prosper.
The strategic calculation that led London to help Istanbul came to
dominate the imperial politics of the nineteenth century, and there were
many more unlikely alliances in the years ahead. The calculation cen-
tered on the contradiction at the heart of Europe’s dealings with Istanbul:
much as each European empire wanted to seize the sultan’s realms for
themselves, they were equally anxious to make sure none of their rivals
profited from any sudden collapse of the empire. The strategy became
known as “The Eastern Question” and was a pillar of British foreign pol-
icy during the 1800s. If it meant supporting the sultan in a war against
one of their rivals, the British were quite prepared to do it.
In the meantime, all of Europe’s empires circled like vultures over
the sultan’s vast territories and deployed every means at their disposal to
undermine his rule.
The most potent weapon at the Europeans’ disposal was not their military
or their money. It was a series of seemingly obscure diplomatic arrange-
ments made in the sixteenth century between Sultan Selim II (r. 1566–74)
and the king of France. In 1569, the sultan decreed that any of the king’s
subjects traveling in Ottoman lands were liable to French rather than

Ottoman law. In return, any of the sultan’s subjects traveling in the French
kingdom would remain under the sultan’s jurisdiction. Once the French
had secured these privileges, other European powers started to lobby for
them too.8
On the face of it, these arrangements, or Capitulations as they came to
be known, seemed fair to both parties. Selim II himself certainly saw no
cause for concern. As Ottoman power was still expanding, he was nego-
tiating from a position of strength and he granted them as a personal
favor to the French king. But once the balance of power between East and
West started to tip in favor of the latter, the Capitulations came to be used
in a way the Ottomans never intended. They provided the platform for
European intervention in the internal affairs of the Ottoman state.
The problem was that the Capitulations did not merely place a for-
eigner beyond Ottoman law; they placed him or her beyond Ottoman
taxes and customs duties. This loophole was seized upon by foreigners
wanting to do business in the Ottoman Empire. Like the global corpora-
tions of the twenty-first century that operate everywhere but seem to pay
taxes nowhere, Europeans saw a chance to set up shop in the Ottoman
Empire without having to pay any taxes to the local treasury.9
The Capitulations were deliberately manipulated to create an unequal
playing field between local and foreign businesses. The end result was
that a small foreign elite came to dominate certain sectors of the economy,
especially those dealing with imports or exports to Europe. Local busi-
nessmen were effectively shut out of these lucrative markets. The impact
this had on the Ottoman economy was far-reaching. The impact on the
social fabric of Ottoman society was even more profound.
Ottoman society was a mosaic of religions, ethnicities, and languages,
of which Turkish Muslims were the dominant group. It was their Islamic
faith that shaped the state and defined the empire’s worldview. Other
groups had their place in that state—a place protected by Islamic law; but
as non-Muslims in a Muslim state, they could never hope to enjoy equal
rights with the Muslim community.
The Capitulations threatened this state of affairs. European empires
used them not only to gain business leverage but also to set up spheres of
influence within the Ottoman Empire. Catherine the Great blazed this
trail when Russia became patron of the empire’s Orthodox community
following Russia’s victory in the 1768–74 war. Others now followed in her
footsteps. The French adopted the Maronite community in modern-day
Lebanon. The British could not find many of their fellow Anglicans to
defend, and not wanting to be outdone by their imperial rivals, they took
it upon themselves to speak for the region’s Jews. Even faraway America
joined in. The nineteenth century saw the arrival of politically well-con-
nected American missionaries who, with their schools and their churches,
sought to bring the values of the New World to the Old.10
These two processes combined—the separate laws for foreigners and
the adoption of non-Muslim minorities by outside powers—changed the
character of the Ottoman Empire. Christian communities living in the
heart of the empire increasingly came to be seen as a class apart who iden-
tified more with their co-religionists in Europe than with their Muslim
neighbors. Meanwhile, Christian communities living on the fringes of
empire in areas where they formed the majority community increasingly
pushed for independence from Istanbul.11
They were encouraged in this by Britain, France, and Russia, who, for
strategic reasons of their own, wanted to see the Ottoman Empire pushed
out of Europe. The Balkan province of Serbia was the first to go, becoming
autonomous in 1817. The provinces of Wallachia and Moldavia followed
in 1829 (combining in 1861 to form Romania). And Greece became inde-
pendent in 1830 after a War of Independence in the 1820s—made famous
in Britain by the role played by the colorful English poet Lord Byron.
Throughout the nineteenth century, European elites were so heavily
invested in the future of the Ottoman Empire that they were prepared to
fight each other over it. In the middle of the century, what began as a spat
over a star in Bethlehem ended up in all-out war with an unlikely alliance
of Britain, France, and the Ottomans on one side and Russia on the other.
Just like the infamous fly whisk incident that led to a war between
France and Algeria in 1830, the Crimean War also began with an incident
that bordered on the ridiculous. In October 1847, the silver star on the
floor of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem went missing. The star
is meant to mark the spot where Jesus Christ was born. This particular
one was donated by the French, and French monks immediately accused
their Orthodox colleagues of stealing it. Christian fellowship flew out the
window and a brawl ensued. (Strange as it sounds, this sort of thing is not
as unusual as you might think in these sacred surroundings. To this day,
the star can still bring out the less holy side of people. In their eagerness to
kiss the sacred spot, worshipers often jump ahead in line and shove fellow
worshipers out of the way.)
In 1847, Emperor Napoleon III of France and his Russian counterpart
Tsar Nicholas I each claimed the right to replace the missing star. It was
up to Sultan Abdulmajid to choose between them. To concentrate his
mind, the French sent a gunboat to the region. Not surprisingly, the sul-
tan sided with the French. The tsar was outraged and, reviving Catherine
the Great’s vision of a Russian-sponsored Christian Constantinople, he
declared war on the sultan and ordered his troops to invade.12
On March 28, 1853, Protestant Britain sided with Catholic France and
Muslim Istanbul to declare war on Orthodox Russia. The Crimean War
(1853–6) was not Britain’s finest fighting hour, but that was never the
point. London’s real aim was to prevent an outright Russian victory and
preserve the status quo in the eastern Mediterranean. It was a strategic
objective shared by the French.
Imperial overreach was another objective. If the Russians and
Ottomans could be pushed to fight beyond their resources, then it did not
matter who won on the battlefield. The real winners would be the British
and the French.
That was exactly what happened. The Ottomans ended up on the
winning side, but it came at a price they could not pay. The war cost the
Ottomans so much, the sultan was obliged to take out the empire’s first
foreign loan. In 1854, the sultan became indebted to British and French
banks.13 It was a process, once started, that only led to more debt. And
the Ottomans had neither the industry nor the resources to finance these
mounting debts. Over the next 20 years, they took out one loan after
another and on such unfavorable terms that there was no way to balance
the books. By 1875, the Ottoman state was bankrupt. That bankruptcy
opened the way for the Anglo-French takeover of the Middle East.
Within ten years of the Ottoman Empire going bankrupt, nearly all of
Istanbul’s territories in North Africa were in British or French hands.
Nominally, these lands remained part of Istanbul’s empire, but in reality,
it was the British and French whose word was law.
European power did not stop at the outskirts of the empire. The extent
of Ottoman debt allowed it to penetrate right to the heart of empire, to
Istanbul itself. In 1881, the Public Debt Administration (PDA) was set up
by the British and French to oversee the repayment of Ottoman debts. Just
like a modern IMF bailout, the PDA operated in the interests of the credi-
tors rather than those of the state whose finances they were restructuring.
This loss of sovereignty was acutely felt across Ottoman society.
For many in Istanbul’s intellectual elite, the bankruptcy showed how
far the Ottoman Empire had fallen behind the European powers. In their
opinion, there was only one answer to the crisis. The empire needed to
modernize. And that meant being more like Europe. Inspired by the ideas
and ideals of the French Revolution, they believed politics and power had
to be opened up for public participation. It was a direct challenge to the
absolute nature of the sultan’s power.
It was not the first attempt to do so. In 1876, just a year after the bank-
ruptcy was announced, the sultan’s grand vizier Midhat Pasha set out a
constitution to pave the way for a parliament. But the plan went nowhere.
The sultan was less than happy about sharing his power with a parliament
and used a legal loophole to quash the project.
The idea behind it proved much harder to quash, however. Throughout
the 1880s, writers and journalists, academics and businessmen saw politi-
cal change as essential if the Ottoman Empire aimed to close the technol-
ogy gap and compete as an equal against the powers of Europe. In 1889,
from the safety of faraway Paris, a group calling themselves the Young
Turks demanded the reintroduction of the constitution and the establish-
ment of a parliament in Istanbul.
By 1908, the Young Turks had had enough of waiting for the sultan
to institute change voluntarily. They staged a coup and the 1876 consti-
tution was reinstated. Sultan Abdulhamid II (r. 1876–1909) remained in
power, but his authority was no longer absolute. What happened next was
to become a pattern of politics in the Middle East during the twentieth
century. Once in power, the Young Turks turned out to be no more toler-
ant of dissent than the sultan had been. They, too, set out to accumulate
as much power as possible in their own hands.
Part of the problem was the very nature of political change in the
Ottoman Empire. It was not organic. The Young Turks simply took the
European political model of parliaments and constitutions and grafted
it onto their own society—a society that was fundamentally differ-
ent in outlook and experience from the nation-states of Europe. The
European political model had grown out of the hopes and history of
Europe’s peoples. Often, it was the result of bitter and bloody wars.
And within Europe itself, there were many different political models.
Britain was a constitutional monarchy; France veered between republic
and empire; Germany had a kaiser who wanted to ignore parliament;
and Russia had a tsar who thought he was second only to God. There
was no one size that fitted all. But rather than innovate and create a
political model that suited their own society’s needs, the Young Turks
imitated aspects of European political culture and ended up alienating
themselves from the mass of Ottoman society. They represented the
urban elite to which they belonged but not the man in the market or
the farmer in his field.
As a result, their revolution did little to address the yawning gap
between power and the people. The average person remained as far from
power as when the sultan had ruled alone. All of which meant that in
1914, when the time came to decide whether or not to fight in Europe’s
war, it was a decision that placed the ruling elite on the line. If they made
the wrong decision and ended up on the losing side, they had no popular
mandate to validate their decision.
Why they chose to side with Germany owed much to the Ottoman
Empire’s recent history. The links between Istanbul and Berlin were long-
standing. As far back as the 1830s, the Ottomans turned to the Germans
for help to reform their military along European lines. These military
connections were accelerated during Abdulhamid’s reign, particularly
during the 1880s, with the German army training Ottoman officers in
Germany as well as sending liaison officers to Istanbul.14
In the sultan’s dealings with the kaiser, there was also an element of
“my enemy’s enemy is my friend.” In Ottoman eyes, Germany did not
have the imperial baggage of Britain or France or Russia. Germany did
not appear to covet the Ottoman capital. Germany’s banks did not con-
trol Ottoman debt. Germany did not occupy Cairo or Tunis or Algiers.
The structure for a German-Ottoman alliance was, therefore, already
in place before the Young Turks staged their coup. What helped seal the
alliance were the actions of the Allies themselves.
In the run-up to the war, Britain, France, and Russia made no signifi-
cant diplomatic overtures to Istanbul. The truth was they did not rate the
Ottomans as an enemy and did not value them as an ally. Then, on July
28, 1914, the First Lord of the Admiralty, a young Winston Churchill,
confiscated two ships being built in Britain for the Ottoman navy. These
ships, the Reshadieh and the Sultan Osman I, were no ordinary naval ves-
sels. They were the foundation of the new Ottoman navy, designed to take
on the Russian Black Sea Fleet. More than that, they were funded by pub-
lic donation and, as such, were an emotional symbol of Ottoman identity.
Children gave up their pocket money to help pay for them.15
In Istanbul, there was outrage at Churchill’s actions. But even this was
not enough to push the Ottomans into war against the Allies. Throughout
the autumn, they continued to hedge their bets.
By November, they could no longer do so. On November 2, after the
Germans shelled Russian Black Sea ports using Ottoman ships, Russia
declared war on Istanbul. Britain and France followed three days later.
On November 11, Sultan Mehmed V (r. 1909–18) responded by declaring
war on Britain, France, and Russia.
Europe was split in two. Its fate hung in the balance. So too did the fate
of the Middle East. The future of the Arab people now depended on what
happened on the battlefields of Europe.
And it would fall to two Europeans—one English, the other French—to
redraw the map of the Arab world and begin the process of making the
modern Middle East. In doing so, they would play a critical role in laying
the groundwork for nearly all of the wars raging across the region today.
Part II
Too Many Straight Lines on

the Map: Where, When,
and Why It Started
to Go Wrong
7
London: Tuesday,
December 21, 1915
T he Englishman was Sir Mark Sykes. The Frenchman was François

Georges Picot.1
And if you have ever looked at a map of the Middle East and wondered
why so many of the borders in the region are so unnaturally straight, look
to Sir Mark and Monsieur Picot for an explanation. The two men met in
London on December 21, 1915, to discuss dividing the Ottoman Empire
between Britain and France and, in the process, they laid the groundwork
for the Middle East we know today.
Both men were bastions of their establishments. Even though France
had given the vote to all adult men back in 1848 and Britain had a wide,
if not universal, male franchise, the highest positions of power in both
countries were still held by a small clique of men from a particular social
background.
Thirty-six-year-old Sir Mark Sykes was born into a landed family in
Yorkshire and grew up in a world of wealth and privilege. Like so many
young men of his background, he trod the well-worn path from public
school to Cambridge (although he did not complete his course) to the
Palace of Westminster. In 1911, he was elected to the House of Commons
as Conservative MP for the city of Hull in the north of England.
Sir Mark’s conventional career path masked a childhood that was any-
thing but. He was an only child and his parents, Sir Tatton and Lady Jessica,
lived the kind of colorful life not uncommon among English aristocrats.
A distant, aloof figure, Sir Tatton Sykes was more than twice his wife’s
age. For her part, lonely Lady Jessica drank too much and had a string of
affairs, including one with a tour guide when the couple were on a family
holiday.2 “Warm-hearted but wanton” is how one historian describes her.3
Ultimately, the facade could not be maintained and the couple’s divorce in
1897 laid bare every detail of their marriage for public scrutiny.
Sir Mark Sykes’s childhood left two enduring legacies, both of which
had political consequences.4 The first was religion. When Sykes was very
young, his mother flouted convention and converted to Catholicism. She
brought her son up in the faith, a course of action which destined him
to be something of an outsider among England’s Anglican elite. That
did not deter him and, as an adult, he was an enthusiastic follower of his
faith. When he was negotiating the future of the Ottoman Empire with
the French, his Catholic faith helped him to understand, and sometimes
even to sympathize with, France’s plans.
The other legacy of Sir Mark Sykes’s childhood was a fascination with
the East. His family visited the region on a number of occasions, includ-
ing the infamous holiday when his mother became intimately acquainted
with their guide. For the young Sir Mark, the East became an obsession
that would last for the rest of his life.5 In this, he was not unusual. For
well-heeled Europeans of his era with the resources to travel, the exotic
East offered an escape from the restrictions and pressures of life at
home. For Sir Mark, his childhood travels in the East were a welcome
respite from the ups and downs of his parent’s marriage.6 As an adult, he
was drawn to the region again and again. He traveled widely as a tour-
ist and turned his experiences into travelogues-cum-popular histories.
(Nowadays, he would blog.) Then, for four years, he worked at the British
Embassy in Istanbul.7
His time in the Ottoman world served him well when he became an
MP. He was almost unique among his peers in having traveled widely in
the area. It mattered little that he spoke no Arabic or Turkish. It mattered
even less that he had not studied the region, its religions, or its peoples
in any in-depth or objective way. In an era long before universities had
Middle East Departments or Oriental Institutes, a little knowledge of
the Ottoman Empire went a long way. Sir Mark Sykes was considered an
expert on the subject because he knew something about it when most of
his colleagues knew nothing at all.
In April 1915 when British Prime Minister Herbert Asquith convened
a committee of high-ranking officials from the Foreign Office and the
War Office to draw up Britain’s plans for the future of the Middle East,
Sir Mark Sykes was part of the team. And not a junior member: he was
there at the personal request of the man running the War Office, Lord
Kitchener.8 That committee, named after the diplomat Sir Maurice de
Bunsen who headed it, met in the spring of 1915 and delivered its recom-
mendations to the British government by June.
Those recommendations reflected the need to protect long-held British
imperial interests. In other words: the route to India. Britain wanted
nothing less than control of the land route through the Middle East from
LONDON: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1915 71
the Mediterranean to the Gulf. That meant taking everything from the
coast of modern-day Israel through modern-day Jordan into central and
southern Iraq with a slice of the eastern Persian Gulf coast thrown in too.
Kaiser Wilhelm’s plans to build the Berlin–Baghdad railway had seriously
rattled the British. It risked bringing the Germans too close to the heart
of the British Empire. One way to make sure it never happened was to
control the land along the route and deny Germany access to it.
For Britain, controlling what would become Iraq was strategically
important for another reason. In 1912, the Royal Navy launched its first
oil-powered battleship: the HMS Queen Elizabeth.9 It was the shape of
things to come. Before then, royal navy vessels were coal-fired. Hence
the British Empire’s need for a string of coaling stations across the
Mediterranean into the Gulf. Gibraltar, Malta, Cyprus, Suez, and Aden
were all essential links in an imperial chain running from England to
India. Without these ports, the Royal Navy could not refuel.
But change was afoot. The fuel of the future was oil. Iraq was believed
to be full of it. And not only could Iraqi oil power the new Royal Navy
vessels, it could also power the new weapons of war. The First World War,
more than any previous conflict, witnessed a massive mechanization of
warfare. Tanks, aircraft, and chemical weapons were the new normal.
Britain’s Royal Navy might still be the senior service, but from now on
no war could be won without an air force, and an air force required fuel
and forward bases. The British looked at Iraq and saw that Iraq could
provide both. For the British, all that remained was to secure a port on
the Mediterranean where oil could be shipped to the European market.
Sir Mark Sykes lobbied for Haifa.
The British began negotiations with the French on Tuesday, November
23, 1915. At first, the meetings were led by Sir Arthur Nicolson of the
Foreign Office, but by December 21, Sir Mark Sykes was in charge. Facing
him across the negotiating table was the representative of the French gov-
ernment: François Georges Picot.
Forty-three-year-old François Georges Picot was an imperialist
through and through. He was born into a family with sound imperial
credentials. His father Georges was a leading light of one French imperial
institution; his brother Charles a leading light of another. For the father,
the main interest was French Africa. For the son, it was French Asia.10
Career-wise, François Georges Picot followed in his father’s footsteps and
became a lawyer but then switched to diplomacy. Like his English coun-
terpart Sir Mark Sykes, Picot had direct experience of living and work-
ing in the Ottoman Empire: he had served as French Consul in Beirut
before the war.11 As well as this knowledge and experience, Picot was also
incredibly well connected. He was a member of the influential group, the
Comité de l’Asie Française, and came to the negotiations in London know-

ing exactly what the French colonial lobby expected him to deliver. He
was not the man to let them down.
During the spring and summer of 1915, when the British were working
out what they wanted from the Ottoman Empire, the French had not been
idle either. They had been busy drawing up their own plans for a new
Middle East. Just as the British plans centered on their imperial obses-
sion in India, the French had an imperial obsession of their own: their
historic civilizing mission. What the Crusaders started, what Napoleon
continued, Picot and his colleagues were now determined to finish. Proof
of just how much this meant to them was clear after the war when French
General Henri Gouraud paid a visit in Damascus to the tomb of the
Muslim hero Saladin whose armies had defeated the Crusaders in 1187
to bring Jerusalem back into the House of Islam. “We have returned,” the
soldier told Saladin (who had been dead since 1193).
In 1915, the French resolved to remake the Middle East in their image.
Or, at the very least, to secure agribusinesses producing raw materials
(such as Syrian silkworms) needed for the French textile industry. France
had substantial financial investments in the region, and Paris wanted con-
trol of Greater Syria to safeguard those long-standing commercial inter-
ests. France also wanted to continue protecting the Maronite Christians
in Mount Lebanon—a process begun in the 1860s and consolidated by
the Jesuits and their missionary schools throughout the second half of
the nineteenth century. For all France’s revolutionary republican ideals,
the Catholic Church was still strong in public and political life, and the
Church was keen to maintain its connections so close to the Christian
Holy Land. A Catholic himself, Sir Mark Sykes could understand their
aspirations.12
More important, however, than Sir Mark’s faith was the cold political
reality of the situation. The British were not interested in Greater Syria.
As far as London was concerned, France could have it. London was even
prepared to cede to Paris the oil-rich region of Mosul in northern Iraq
and parts of southern Turkey too. There was method in London’s gen-
erous madness: Britain saw France as the first line of defense between
Britain’s interests in Iraq and Russia’s to the north. If the Russians ever
attacked, the British would not be first in the firing line. The French
would block the way.13
One area, however, where Sykes and Picot could find no common
ground was the Christian Holy Land. Both wanted it. Then, as now, the
stakes were so high; no one could agree and no one would compromise.
Then, as now, it became an issue of all or nothing. Then, as now, a solu-
tion of sorts was eventually ironed out that was not a solution at all.
The British claimed the Mediterranean ports but gave up their claims
elsewhere in the land of Christ’s birth. The French reciprocated and gave
up their claims too. The future of the Holy Land would be international-
ized. But this Wisdom-of-Solomon gesture by both parties was not what
it seemed. The terms of the “internationalization” were deliberately
vague and, in typical diplomatic doublespeak, open to contradictory
interpretations. Both capitals were simply biding their time, waiting for
the moment to secure by other means what they could not secure at the
negotiating table. (The French did not wait long. They made a secret
agreement with the Russians in the spring of 1916 to secure French
control of Palestine.)14
Sykes and Picot finished their negotiations in January 1916, barely
a month after the two men first met. The Sykes-Picot Agreement was
ratified by London and Paris early the following month. It was officially
signed on April 26, 1916.15
The breakneck pace of this behind-the-scenes diplomatic activ-
ity continued. An agreement was also reached with Russian Foreign
Minister Sergei Sazanov, which ratified the Anglo-French deal and
earmarked Istanbul and large chunks of eastern Turkey for Russia. The
Italian Allies were not left out of this land-grab either. Southern Turkey
was reserved for them. But it was the Sykes-Picot Agreement above all
other agreements that became the blueprint for the postwar Middle
East, and it is their names that have become synonymous with Western
imperialism in the Arab world.16 Nearly a century later, in the summer
of 2012, the leader of al-Qaida in Iraq remembered the two men as he
urged his followers to overturn “the borders implemented by the Sykes-
Picot [Agreement]” and bring back “the Islamic state, the state that does
not recognize artificial boundaries and does not believe in any national-
ity other than Islam.”17 Less than two years later, the man in question,
Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, had done just that and set himself up as the new
caliph of the Islamic State.
The Sykes-Picot Agreement turned out to be almost prophetic in pre-
dicting what would happen to the Arab world after the war. Yet it was
not at all clear at the time that events would turn out that way. In 1915,
the war was still raging and an Allied victory was far from certain. The
Germans were still deeply entrenched on French soil. The Russians were
still bogged down on the Eastern front. The Turks, as the Allies had dis-
covered to their cost at Gallipoli and would soon discover again at Kut,
were a formidable foe. And the Americans, with their wealth of men and
materiel, had not yet entered the war. Under such conditions, the Anglo-
French decision to carve up an empire that had not yet collapsed appears
to be an act of breathtaking diplomatic chutzpah.
Officially, London and Paris did it as a pre-emptive strike against

Russia. Even though they were supposed to be allies, Britain and France
were wary of Russia’s Eastern ambitions. The British and French, with
their own imperial obsessions, knew the Russians had one too: building
a Russian Rome in Istanbul. If Russia capitalized on the war to secure
a historic victory against the Turks in the eastern Mediterranean, the
balance of power in the region would tip decisively in Petrograd’s favor.
A state of affairs neither Britain nor France wished to see. London and
Paris were determined to limit the fallout of any potential Russian victory
against the Ottomans. The Eastern Question had dominated foreign rela-
tions among the Great Powers in the last half of the nineteenth century.
Sykes-Picot was a twentieth-century response to that nineteenth-century
question: a means of ensuring that whatever outcome prevailed, Britain
and France would not lose out.
There was another reason the British and French were so keen to make
gains in the Arab world after the war. They had to justify the sacrifice
their men were making. No one had expected the war to last so long, be
so bloody, and cost so much in blood and treasure. The price for all those
lost lives had to be paid somehow.
The death toll from the First World War still has the power to shock.
Britain lost more than 700,000 men in the course of the conflict. The
French lost 300,000 men in 1914 alone.18 By the end of the war, they had
lost another million. Russia lost even more and in even less time (they
left the war in 1917): one million and seven hundred thousand men. In
total, the Allies lost 5,100,000 men to win the war—more than 1,600,000
than their opponents.19 These figures do not include the wounded, the
captured, or the missing in action. The Allies had to have something to
show for all that loss.
The idea of finding compensation in the East for losses in the West was
not new. At the Congress of Berlin in 1878, the Great Powers agreed that
France should have Tunisia as compensation for losing Alsace-Lorraine to
the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870–1. On a similar theme,
at a conference in Algeciras in Spain in early 1906, the British and French
sealed the fate of Egypt and Morocco as a way of preserving the balance
of power in Europe.20
At the Congress of Berlin and, again, at the conference in Algeciras,
the Great Powers did not consider the wishes of Tunisians, Egyptians,
or Moroccans. Likewise, Sykes-Picot took no account of the hopes and
aspirations of the people whose lives they were about to turn upside
down. Imperialism fostered a sense of entitlement that enabled diplo-
mats from Europe to sit at a desk with a map and a ruler and draw lines
through historic heartlands, sacred cities, and family farms without a
second thought for the long-term implications. In Europe’s corridors of

power, the Middle East was a blank space waiting to be remade. Even the
term “Middle East” reflects this line of thinking. It is not a local term. It
does not come from any of the many languages of the region. It was the
brainchild of an American naval strategist, Alfred Taylor Mahan, who
came up with it in 1902 when he was advising British strategists how to
protect the sea routes to India. The name neatly encapsulates how the
area fitted into imperial strategic thinking: it was in the “middle.” It had
no intrinsic value of or by itself. Its value lay in its position on the way to
somewhere else.21
There was, however, a major miscalculation in this line of thinking:
one that would reverberate through the rest of the century and into the
next. What the Allies wanted in the Middle East—what the Sykes-Picot
Agreement laid the groundwork for achieving—bore absolutely no rela-
tion to the facts on the ground.
8
The Arab World before

the War: The Facts
ont heG round
The Ottoman Empire in the early twentieth century shared a strong sense
of historical continuity with the Islamic caliphates of the past. Under the
Ottoman dynasty, as under previous Islamic dynasties, communal refer-
ence points and definitions of identity dated back centuries: to the life
and times of the Prophet Muhammad.
The Prophet Muhammad’s message was truly revolutionary. Islam
fundamentally altered how people saw themselves and how they defined
their place in the world. It created a whole new form of identity that, in
turn, became the framework for a whole new type of society. Such radical
redefinition of what a society is, and who its members are, is difficult to
achieve at any time or any place. In the twentieth century, the leaders of
the Soviet Union did their level best to remake Russians into Communists.
But even with all the technology the modern world has to offer and all the
coercive power of the Soviet state at their disposal, they still could not
achieve it. The pull of Mother Russia was too strong. Russians remained
indisputably Russian.
Back in the seventh century, the Prophet Muhammad succeeded in
remaking his world. And he did so not only for his own time and place.
He created an identity and a community that transcended the immediate
environment and has withstood the test of time. Recent surveys illustrate
just how enduring that sense of identity has proven to be.
As recently as 2006, a Pew survey of German Muslims showed that
two-thirds of those polled saw themselves as Muslim first and German
second. (By comparison, of the German Christians polled, only 13 percent
saw themselves as Christian first, German second.) The figures for the
United Kingdom are even more striking. Of the British Muslims polled,
81 percent saw themselves as Muslim first, British second. (By compari-
son, of the British Christians polled, only 7 percent saw themselves as
Christian first, British second.)1
The results of another survey are equally enlightening. In 2009,
Gallup asked a sample of British Muslims if religion was important in
their daily lives. Seventy percent responded yes. (By comparison, of the
British Christians polled, only 29 percent answered yes.) Gallup also
asked a sample of German Muslims the same question. Eighty-two per-
cent responded yes. (By comparison, of the German Christians polled,
only 33 percent answered yes.)2
The nature of the Islamic faith helps explain why Islam’s reach is so
wide and why the Prophet Muhammad was so successful in building
a community based on it. Islam is a public religion. Its defining char-
acteristics are the five pillars of the faith: the statement of belief, daily
prayer, almsgiving, fasting during the holy month of Ramadan, and the
pilgrimage to Mecca. These are community-based activities that are
less concerned with individual morality or theology than with a shared
experience of the faith. Islam is not a religion where, if you are a believer,
you stay home to work on your personal relationship with God or wrestle
privately with your doubts and inner demons. Islam is a religion that
requires you to go to the mosque, pray as part of the community, and
live your faith on a daily basis. Nowhere is this sense of Islam as a com-
munity more visible than in Mecca during the pilgrimage. Nowadays,
two million pilgrims make the journey.3
Like any revolutionary way of living, Islam was—and still is—uni-
versal in its application. Anyone can be a believer. Because of this, when
the Muslim armies left Arabia not long after the Prophet’s death in 632
and conquered much of the known world, the conquered peoples had a
way “in” to the new order, if they chose to take it. There were also safe-
guards if they did not. Conversions were not forced. The Quran stipu-
lates, “There is no compulsion in religion.”4 In fact, Christians and Jews
were often encouraged not to convert as they paid a poll-tax ( jizya), which
was a valuable source of revenue for the nascent Islamic state. But as time
passed and as Arab armies won more territory, conversions grew. Within
a century of the Prophet’s death, the Islamic call to prayer echoed from
Afghanistan in the east to the Atlantic in the west and to the foothills of
the Pyrenees in Europe. The Muslim community of believers had become
truly transnational. Its members came from groups as diverse as Arab and
Armenian, Spanish and Syrian, Turk and Tuareg, Kurd and Circassian.
The House of Islam had room for all of them.
THE ARAB WORLD BEFORE THE WAR 79
For those who were not believers, particularly the Jewish and Christian
communities across the Middle East, the jizya was the price they had to
pay for securing their place in society. Never equal to Muslims, the best
they could hope for was a protected position in the Islamic order. For
the most part, they got it. There were, however, sporadic eruptions of
intercommunal violence. One of the most notorious examples of which
was the massacre of over 10,000 Christians by Druzes in Mount Lebanon
in 1860.
There were also occasional bouts of state-sponsored discrimination
although these were not of the same caliber of persecution that Jews and
Muslims experienced in medieval Europe.5 The reign of the Fatimid
caliph al-Hakim in Egypt (r. 996–1021) is one example. Al-Hakim was
slightly unhinged—the historian Philip Hitti calls him “deranged”—and
he made Christians and Jews wear black so they could be identified in
public.6 He also had them wear crosses or bells around their necks in
the public baths for the same reason. It was not just minorities, however,
who felt the full force of al-Hakim’s instability. He introduced measures
that affected everyone in the community, such as when he banned certain
foodstuffs for no apparent reason. In his treatment of religious minori-
ties, this caliph was the exception rather than the rule, and his son and
successor al-Zahir (r. 1021–35) took immediate steps upon his succession
to reassure Jews and Christians.7
In the Muslim world, Islam clearly was—and still is—the dominant
identity. Faith marks the border of belonging. But that faith is not static.
It is constantly evolving. Within Islam itself, there are countless groups
and sub-groups claiming people’s allegiance and defining their identity.
The two best known are the Sunnis and the Shi‘is, and these, too, contain
many groups and sub-groups.
Within Sunni Islam, there are four main schools of religious thought
named after the theologians who founded them: the Hanbali, the Hanafi,
the Maliki, and the Shafi. In Shi‘i Islam, there are also various sub-groups
such as the Seveners and the Twelvers. The numbers represent the genera-
tions descended from Ali, the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law, and father
of the martyr al-Husayn. Shi‘is believe the Hidden Imam, the Redeemer
figure who will usher in an era of divinely inspired justice, will come
from one of these lines of the Prophet’s family. These sub-groups, in turn,
have sub-groups that branch off into what almost amounts to a different
religion, such as the Alawi or the Druze.
There are also faith-based movements that combine religion and activ-
ism like the Sufis with their whirling dervishes and their revolutionaries
who fought the French in Algeria and the Italians in Libya. Then there
are the Wahhabi zealots with their austere brand of militant Islam who
joined forces with a little-known family in eighteenth-century Arabia

and later created the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.8
While Islam is the primary identity for Muslims, it is not the only
one. This is a culturally complex, multilayered community and people
have a number of secondary identities, one of the most important of
which is the tribe. Before Islam, the great tribal rivalry in Arabia was
between the Qays tribal federation in the north of the peninsula and
the Yaman in the south. Islam superseded this tribal rivalry but never
entirely eradicated it.9
One of the reasons the tribe survived as a communal unit was due
to the nature of the early Islamic conquests. When the Muslim armies
swept out of Arabia and swept all before them in the 630s and 640s,
they built garrisons in the areas they conquered. These military camps
(amsar in Arabic) were situated in key strategic locations close to good
transport links, such as al-Jabiya in the Golan Heights, Fustat on the
Nile (later to grow into Cairo), Basra near the Persian Gulf, and Kufa
on the Euphrates. They were initially intended as forward bases for the
next phase of military expansion, but they soon developed into bustling
cities.
Because the armies fought in tribal units, land in these cities was allo-
cated by tribe and each quarter was settled exclusively by the members of
one tribe. In this way, not only was the strength of the tribe retained; so
too was the link between the tribe and the military. This, in turn, meant
the tribal loyalties of Arabia fanned out across the empire. Wherever the
armies won new territory, that new territory was settled by the tribe who
conquered it.
With tribal identities remaining so strong among the conquerors, the
conquered people kept their own tribal relationships and affiliated, often
en bloc, with the tribes from Arabia. As a result, the tribe as a unit of social
organization retained its importance in the Islamic world and never lost
it. Tribal rivalries became so much of an issue in the late seventh and
early eighth centuries; they helped bring down Islam’s first dynasty, the
Umayyads, in 750.10
Throughout the history of the Islamic caliphate, regional and urban
identities also retained their hold on people’s loyalties. The people of
great cities like Jerusalem and Damascus had a sense of history stretch-
ing far back in time which they managed to fuse with their Islamic iden-
tity. In places like Egypt and Iran, home to great civilizations predating
Islam, a multilayered sense of identity was common. An Egyptian living
in Alexander’s city on Africa’s Mediterranean coast could be proud of
Egypt’s Hellenistic, Roman, and Pharaonic past and be no less a Muslim
for it. Equally, an Iranian living in the imperial city of Isfahan could be
proud of Cyrus the Great for making Persia the greatest country on earth
in the sixth century bc and, likewise, be no less a Muslim for it.
Different races and regions, different cities and tribes: the Islamic
world from the Prophet to the dawn of the twentieth century was a mish-
mash of peoples and places, cultures and languages. But the glue that held
it all together was Islam. Muhammad’s message succeeded in holding his
community together for centuries, regardless of whether the caliphate was
led by the Rightly Guided Caliphs in Arabia (632–61), the Umayyads in
Damascus (661–750), the Abbasids in Baghdad (750–1258), the Fatimids
in Cairo (969–1171), or the Ottomans in Istanbul.11
Sykes and Picot were about to change all that. They aimed to do noth-
ing less than overturn thirteen centuries of history and introduce the
nation-state to the Middle East. To understand just how difficult a task
that was going to be, you have only to look at Greater Syria.
Greater Syria was no ordinary part of the Muslim world. It was a super-
province whose territories covered modern Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Jordan,
and parts of Iraq and Turkey. Damascus was its political center, Jerusalem
its spiritual anchor.
Greater Syria was conquered by the Muslim armies between 633 and
641. In the early days of the caliphate when power was exercised from
Medina in Arabia (632–61), caliphs were so concerned about the potential
of this region to become a state within a state; they divided it into four
(later five) administrative districts (ajnad ) to prevent its governor from
becoming too powerful. But it happened anyway. In 661, the governor of
Greater Syria, Muawiya bin Sufyan, a former citizen of Mecca and one-
time opponent of the Prophet, emerged as the victor in Islam’s first civil
war and claimed the caliphate as his.
His victory was due in no small measure to the vast resources of Greater
Syria. It was a cultural, economic, and military powerhouse. Blessed by
geography, this was a fertile region with agricultural techniques far ahead
of Europe’s. Its cities were hubs along east-west trade routes. Its soldiers
were the shock troops of the Islamic empire.
For the best part of a century, Muawiya’s Umayyad family drew on
these resources and ruled the Islamic world from their Syrian strong-
hold.12 It was from here that the high watermark of imperial expansion
was reached when Muslim forces conquered Spain in 711 and reached
France in 732. And it was from here that many of the recognizable sym-
bols of Islamic civilization—the magnificent mosque architecture, for
example—first took shape.
Damascus lost its political pole position when the Umayyad dynasty
fell in 750. But the memory of its greatness lingered. Political geography
might change, but basic geography does not. Greater Syria still sat at the
very heart of the Arab Muslim world. In the world before air travel, this
was still the crossroads between East and West.
In Arabic, the region was known as al-Sham. Al-Sham is sometimes
loosely translated as “Syria,” but this Syria does not have the same borders
as the modern Arab Republic of Syria. In fact, it does not have any borders
at all. People could travel and trade freely throughout this vast region,
just as they could throughout the Islamic empire. This idea of an Islamic
world without borders is still relevant today. The Islamic State of Syria
and the Levant (ISIL) use al-Sham in the Arabic version of their name:
al-dawla al-islamiyya f ’il-‘Iraq wa’l-Sham (DA‘ISH for short). They do so
to show their rejection of the Middle East’s nation-state system with its
artificially created borders and artificially created national identities.
Historically, al-Sham corresponds to the territory of the region’s
original administrative sub-districts, most of which were in place from
Roman times. Running north to south along the Mediterranean coast,
these districts were Qinnasrin, Homs, Damascus, Jordan, and Palestine.13
Like historic Syria, these districts do not correspond to the same territory
as their modern namesakes. The Damascus region, for example, took in
practically all of modern Lebanon. The Jordan region took in all of the
north of modern Israel. Qinnasrin took in parts of modern Turkey.
This system of governing the region through sub-districts had deep
roots in history. Whichever caliph ruled Greater Syria would appoint
governors to the major cities and/or sub-governors to the outlying prov-
inces. There were periods when this pattern was interrupted—at times of
weak central authority and during the Crusader era—but for much of the
Islamic era, Greater Syria was ruled by governors appointed by the caliph
in Baghdad or Cairo and, from the sixteenth century to the twentieth, by
the sultan in Istanbul. The region’s sub-districts were known as wilayas
in Arabic or vilayets in Turkish.
Sykes-Picot proposed drawing lines through the wilayas where previ-
ously none had existed. These lines severed communities who had lived
side by side for centuries and they partnered others who had no wish to
be neighbors. They upset the regional economy and disrupted long-es-
tablished trade and farming patterns. They relegated religion as a form of
identity and imposed a new one, the nation, on people who had no wish
for it. And perhaps most importantly of all, they created internal borders
in a world that had no experience of them.
In doing so, the Sykes-Picot Agreement wove intercommunal tension
into the fabric of the states they created and stored up problems for the
future. France’s principal aim in creating Lebanon was to protect France’s

overseas trade network and the Maronite Christians. To do this, the new
state had to contain the thriving cosmopolitan port of Beirut and the
Maronite heartland of Mount Lebanon, autonomous since 1860. Such a
country would have been tiny in comparison to its neighbors and its size
would have left it vulnerable. To avoid such a scenario, additional parts
of the Damascus region of Greater Syria were added to Lebanon: the port
cities of Tripoli, Tyre, and Sidon, along with the Biqa Valley.
In the wake of these changes, Lebanon bore more than a pass-
ing resemblance to the French Crusader kingdoms of old. And while
the country was certainly larger, it now contained the seeds of its own
destruction. The Lebanese population was made up of a large commu-
nity of Muslims split between Shi‘is in the south and the Biqa Valley, and
Sunnis in the rest of the country. It also contained a sizable community of
Maronites and a considerable number of the Maronites’ long-term rivals,
the Druzes. The Maronites and the Druzes had gone to war on at least
three occasions in the nineteenth century (1838, 1841–2, and 1845) fol-
lowed by a wave of tit-for-tat sectarian killings culminating in the 1860
massacre of the Maronites.
This ethnic make-up was too diverse for a small country lacking
any sense of national identity, any national infrastructure, any national
institutions, and where intercommunal competition for limited state
resources would be fierce. It also made no allowances for the impact of
changing demography: the birth rate was much higher among Muslims
than Christians—a state of affairs that would, over time, undermine the
French-sponsored plan for Christian hegemony of the country.
Lebanon was not the only new country affected by Sykes and Picot.
Lebanon’s newly created neighbor, Syria, was not immune to the long-
term negative effects of their plans. Syria was sundered of most of its
southern territories, and Damascus, capital of the new country, was
completely severed from its western hinterland (now in Lebanon).
Beirut, the main port in the region, had been the gateway for Syrian
exports to Europe. Not anymore: the truncated version of Syria had no
access to it.
Syria’s loss of size and status cast a long shadow over the wider region.
And just as France had a historic mission in the region, so too did the
new Syria. Once independent, the rulers of Damascus were determined
to reclaim the city’s historic hinterland, an objective that prompted Syria
to intervene in Lebanon’s civil war (1975–90), to ally with the Shi‘i group
Hizbullah, and stay on as an occupation force until they were forced out
early in the twenty-first century following the assassination of former
Lebanese prime minister, Rafiq Hariri, on Valentine’s Day 2005.
Internally, Syria had problems too. The country’s ethnic mix is even
more heterogeneous than Lebanon’s. Greater Syria was a crossroads
civilization and the new Syria, formed from its predecessor’s geographi-
cal core, became predominantly Arab but with significant minorities of
Armenians, Circassians, Kurds, and Turkomen. Religiously, the majority
of the population is overwhelmingly Sunni Muslim with an Alawi minor-
ity concentrated in the north-west around Latakia on the Mediterranean
coast. Significant minorities of Druzes, Shi‘is, and Christians make up
the rest of the population.14 Under the Sykes-Picot Agreement, all of these
religions and races, like the ones in Lebanon, had to set aside their previ-
ous terms of communal reference and redefine themselves in accordance
with the lines drawn on the map at the request of the French Republic.
But if the French could be accused of willfully ignoring history, so too
could their allies, the British. The main British proxy state in the Middle
East, Iraq, was just as hastily cobbled together with just as little regard
for history.
For the British, Iraq started off as a tale of two cities: Baghdad and Basra.
These cities and the famously fertile land between them (known as
the Sawad or “black,” referring to the color of the soil) gave the British
what they needed to secure their strategic objectives in the Middle East.
Baghdad, in the center, was the gateway to Transjordan and the land link
west to Palestine. Basra, in the south, was the gateway to the Gulf and the
sea route east to India.
There was, however, a major problem. Baghdad and Basra had very
little in common. They had developed along completely different reli-
gious and political trajectories and they belonged to completely differ-
ent economic and geographical spheres of influence. These differences
were manageable within the broader, regional framework of the Ottoman
Empire. But within the narrower, nationalist construct of a nation-state,
they would be much harder, perhaps impossible, to manage. The new Iraq
was, therefore, a forced political marriage on a grand scale.
The differences between the two cities date back centuries: to Islam’s
arrival in Iraq in the seventh century. In 637, Muslim armies fought a
decisive battle against the Persians at al-Qadisiyya near al-Hira on the
Euphrates. Within days, they had moved upstream to one of the wealthi-
est cities in the world, the Persian capital Ctesiphon, and taken it too. By
641, Mosul in the north was theirs.15
Basra in the south was an early example of Islamic town planning and
was built as a forward base for the Muslim armies. Basra, together with
Kufa further north and Bahrain to the south in the Persian Gulf, became
the launch pads for the Islamic conquest of Iran. Basra, Bahrain, and
Kufa shared something else in common: all would later become bastions
of Shi‘i Islam.
The Sunni–Shi‘i split in Islam is not theological. It is political. But
it has religious consequences. In Christianity, Roman Catholics and
Protestants spent the Middle Ages fighting wars over fundamental points
of doctrine. Who, for example, has the right to remit sins? A specially
ordained priest or only God Himself? For medieval Christians, these
were not insignificant matters. Salvation was at stake. In Islam, Sunnis
and Shi‘is have fought wars over who has the right to lead the commu-
nity. Any suitably qualified Muslim, as Sunnis believe, or a member of the
Prophet’s family, as Shi‘is do? For Muslims, salvation was also at stake. It
was the community’s leader who led them in prayer and in whose name
prayers were said in the mosque on Fridays. If that leader is not legitimate,
neither are the prayers.
In the first Islamic civil war (656–61), Kufa and Basra came out
strongly on the side of the Prophet’s family. Even though they lost, it did
not dent their enthusiasm for the cause. Or for rebellion. A pattern soon
emerged of brief but brilliant rebellions by members of the Prophet’s fam-
ily against the ruling Umayyad dynasty (r. 661–750). These rebellions did
not amount to much in military terms, but they had strong emotional
pull and won the hearts and minds of many in the community, particu-
larly in southern Iraq and the Gulf.
The most famous of these dramatic but doomed bids for power was
launched by the Prophet’s grandson al-Husayn in 680 at Karbala, 25 miles
north-west of Kufa. Al-Husayn’s woefully small but loyal band of 80 fol-
lowers was no match for the massed ranks of the army of the Umayyad
caliph, Yazid (r. 680–4). In the one-sided battle that followed, Umayyad
soldiers slaughtered dozens of members of the Prophet’s family including
al-Husayn.16
For Shi‘is, this is no remote historical event. To this day, they com-
memorate the events at Karbala and reenact them with intense emotion
in an annual passion play. But at the time, the people of Kufa and Basra,
under virtual house arrest by the Umayyad governor, did not come out
in support of al-Husayn. And the lingering guilt over leaving him to his
tragic fate only deepened their veneration for the Prophet’s family, their
suspicion of Sunni central authority, and their tendency to rebel against
it.17 This loyalty to the Prophet’s family has stood the test of time. Southern
Iraq remains a stronghold of Shi‘i Islam.
This Shi‘i connection put the south at odds with northern and cen-
tral Iraq, which were predominantly Sunni, and pulled southern Iraq
into the cultural orbit of the Gulf, a large proportion of whose people
were—and still are—also Shi‘i. Iran, to the east, officially became a
Shi‘i state under the Safavid dynasty (r. 1501–1722) when Shah Ismail
declared he was the hidden member of the Prophet’s family they had
all been waiting for.18 Kuwait, to the west of Basra, also has a sizeable
Shi‘i community. To the south, the oil-rich province of al-Hasa on the
eastern coast of Arabia is overwhelmingly Shi‘i, as is the population of
the island kingdom of Bahrain.
Baghdad, by contrast, was built to be a bastion of the establishment.
And that establishment was Sunni. The city did not even exist at the
time of the conquest of Iraq, but in 762, it was earmarked to be the future
political capital of the Islamic world. Designed to be a clean break with
the past, the city was the brainchild of the Abbasid caliph al-Mansur (r.
754–75) whose name means “the victorious.” He was a ruthless political
operator not averse to having the head of friend as well as foe lopped off, if
the political need arose. Everyone from members of the Prophet’s family
to members of al-Mansur’s own family, even members of his army, includ-
ing the soldier who led the revolution that brought him to power, suffered
the deadly consequences of falling under this caliph’s suspicions.19
Clean breaks were this family’s style. When they overthrew the
Umayyad dynasty, they held a banquet near Jaffa in modern Israel for
surviving members of the deposed ruling family. The Umayyads saw the
invitation as an olive branch and agreed to turn up. They should not have.
As soon as they entered the dining hall, the doors were locked behind
them and a massacre ensued. By the end of the evening, there were no
Umayyads left in Greater Syria who could launch a rebellion against the
new rulers of the Arab world. Amidst the carnage, the banquet did not go
to waste. Leather mats were thrown over the bodies and the executioners,
with their work done, sat on top of the dead and the dying and polished
off the food.20
This rupture with the past was underlined by another one, although
one that was much less bloody: the decision to sideline Syria and move the
caliphate to Iraq. There was no Iraqi city suitable to be the new capital—
Kufa and Basra were too rebellious—so al-Mansur built his own. Not far
from the former Persian capital, Ctesiphon, he found the little village of
Baghdad. Here, on the River Tigris, surrounded by the rich agricultural
land of the Sawad that would ensure the capital’s food supplies, al-Man-
sur built his circular City of Peace (Madinat al-Salam).21
Baghdad was a giant exercise in town planning, land speculation, and
social engineering. A city of royalty and religion, power and pleasure, sol-
diers and scholars, this was the empire in miniature. And right at the
center of it was the caliph’s palace with its green dome visible from afar.
While Basra—the soldiers’ city—was settled by tribe, Baghdad—the royal

city—was settled by the peoples and professions of the empire. Whole
streets were assigned to different trades or crafts. Butchers occupied
one street; booksellers another. Goods from all over the empire were
traded in the caliph’s city. Religious minorities found a home here too.
Baghdad became home to a large number of Jews—the descendants of the
Babylonian exile—as well as a large community of Nestorian Christians.
Later immortalized in the Arabian Nights, Baghdad acted as a magnet
drawing in the riches of the empire as well as attracting people from every
corner of the Islamic world who dreamt of a better life. In its prime, it was
the wealthiest city on the planet.
It was also indisputably Sunni. Al-Mansur, like the Umayyad caliphs
before him, did not think twice about using overwhelming force to crush
Shi‘i rebellions. In later years, the city would have a large Shi‘i population
(now mostly situated in the northern suburb of Sadr City), but from its
birth and throughout its history, Baghdad was predominantly Sunni.
Baghdad remained the center of the Abbasid caliphate until the
Mongols sacked the city in 1258 and the dynasty fell. The city’s glory
days, however, had long since passed. In the ninth and tenth centuries,
regional governors flexed their muscles against the central authority in
Baghdad to claim greater autonomy. They carved out mini-fiefdoms in the
regions they ruled but still pledged allegiance to the caliph in Baghdad.
The result was a looser, more federated system with the caliph acting as
a unifying figurehead, while the governors, out in the provinces, wielded
the real power. Baghdad’s once-all-powerful sway weakened to such a
degree that there were even competitor caliphates: one in Cordoba and
one in Cairo.22
The different historical experiences of Baghdad and Basra—one a city
of power, the other a city of protest—gave them contrasting communal
identities. This, in turn, gave them a different experience of how power
was exercised. As a provincial city, Basra was run by a governor appointed
by the central authority. Baghdad, for a large part of its history, was that
central authority.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, these historical differences
were not obscure facts of interest only to scholars and specialists. They
were very real fault lines and had every potential, if mishandled, to rip the
new country apart. And the British plan for Iraq, whether by accident or
design, was bent on doing exactly that. The new Iraq was to have Baghdad,
the former seat of the caliphate, as its capital. But Baghdad was a Sunni
city in a country whose population was overwhelmingly Shi‘i—an anom-
aly that bothered Britain’s man in Baghdad, Colonel Arnold Wilson, after
the war. He expressed doubts about the country’s long-term viability if
a Sunni minority in Baghdad continuously exercised power over a Shi‘i

majority elsewhere in the country. 23 (Wilson favored direct rule.) London
rejected his concerns. In doing so, they ended up doing what the French
had done in Lebanon and Syria and wove sectarianism into the fabric of
their proxy state.
As if the historical and political differences between Baghdad and
Basra were not enough to place a question mark over the new state, the
two cities had completely different economic orbits. Basra, in the south,
looked to the Gulf for commercial opportunities. Baghdad, landlocked in
the center, looked to the neighboring towns and provinces.
To put two cities with such different historical experiences together
and expect them to function as a coherent political unit was a tall order.
Almost like building a nation around Paris and Geneva and hoping the
fact they both are European, French-speaking, and historically Christian
would be enough to forge a shared sense of national identity and establish
a functioning government.
To add Mosul to the Iraqi mix—as happened after the war—made the
nation-building project an even more complicated task. Mosul, unlike
Baghdad and Basra, was a frontier province. For most of Mosul’s history,
it was a martial city, governed by military men and garrisoned by soldiers
trained to fend off a Byzantine invasion.
To complicate matters further, Mosul itself was far from united. It was
Sunni like Baghdad, but its population was an ethnic mix of Arab and
Kurd. And the Kurds, an independent mountain people with a strong
sense of cultural identity, had no wish to be part of this new country. They
wanted one of their own.
In the early twentieth century, a new army was poised to invade
Mosul: prospectors looking for oil. Britain and France believed the city
sat on top of an untapped reservoir of oil—a commodity they needed to
rebuild their economies after the war. That sealed the city’s fate, drew it
into the Sykes-Picot framework and eventually into the British sphere of
influence.
In creating Iraq, Britain stitched together a state out of three disparate
regions that had very different histories. In creating Lebanon and Syria,
France did the opposite and carved up a region that had functioned as a
political unit for centuries. In doing so, Paris and London took a process
of nation-building that, in their own continent, had taken centuries, tele-
scoped it into a matter of months, then imposed it on people who had not
asked for it. And they did it to satisfy their own imperial interests.
From the outset, the flagship states of the Anglo-French Middle East
were artificial constructs. They were nations in name only.
9
The Remaking of the

Middle East: Enter
theN ation-State
The nation-state was a European idea.

And it was a relatively recent one. As Professor David Reynolds points
out in his award-winning book The Long Shadow, the nineteenth century
was the era when this idea took flight. In 1800, there were around 500
political entities in Europe. By 1900, there were around 20.1
Italy and Germany were prime examples of this political consolida-
tion. Italy started the nineteenth century as a collection of city-states and
ended it as a unified nation-state. Germany started the century as a col-
lection of duchies and principalities and ended it as the biggest nation-
state in central Europe. These new states linked land and language, race
and religion, to create a nation and a nationality out of a multiplicity
of regional identities that had existed in the past. The structure of the
nation-state also revolutionized the economy. With national unity came
economic unity: internal taxes and tariffs were abolished, making the
new nation-state one vast, free-trading area. Germany, for one, soared
economically postunification.
The political dynamic behind the emergence of nation-states came
from the French Revolution. After 1789, the “people” were a factor in
politics. No longer did kings have a divine right to rule. No longer did
the clergy hold a monopoly on morality. No longer did power belong to
the privileged few. Once the Terror subsided, freedom and fraternity were
France’s ideological gifts to the world.
In the Napoleonic wars that followed the Revolution, Europeans became
more aware of themselves as “people.” And many of them demanded the
right to be citizens rather than subjects. Citizenship meant participation.
Participation meant voting. And voting meant public ownership of the
state in a way that had never happened before. The cumulative effect of
these changes was to revolutionize how people saw their country and
their place in it.
The ideals of the French Revolution held a particular appeal for
Europeans living in the Ottoman Empire. People like the Greeks,
Romanians, and Serbs shared neither religion nor race with the Ottoman
Turks who ruled over them. The idea of the people as a “nation” and of
that people’s right to self-determination became a rallying cry for inde-
pendence from Istanbul. Wars of national liberation ensued. People felt
a sense of ownership, of involvement, in the process of building their
nation-state. The Great Powers were only too happy to help them in their
struggles. Anything that reduced the power of the sultan was welcomed
by London, Paris, and St. Petersburg.
The Great Powers had, in fact, been trying to disrupt the social fabric
of the Ottoman Empire for years. The process began in earnest in the late
eighteenth century when Russia’s Catherine the Great stretched a minor
clause in the Treaty of Küçü k Kaynarca (1774) to the limit and virtu-
ally adopted the Ottomans’ Orthodox Christians as surrogate Russians.
By the nineteenth century, Europe’s economic and military power had
grown to such an extent that the continent’s Great Powers could intervene
more directly in Ottoman affairs. The effects were soon seen in changes
to Ottoman law.
Under European pressure, Sultan Abdulmajid I (r. 1839–61) introduced
a series of laws that fundamentally altered the legal basis of citizenship in
the Ottoman Empire. These laws were known as the Imperial Rescripts.
The first, the Imperial Rescript of Gü lhane, was brought in 1839. It was
controversial because it introduced the idea of equality between all reli-
gions. As the Quran stipulates that Muslims and non-Muslims are not
equal, many Muslims believed the sultan’s law contravened Islamic law.
Many non-Muslims were not too happy about it either. One of the advan-
tages of being a non-Muslim in a Muslim empire was exemption from
military service. (The reliability and loyalty of non-Muslims was ques-
tioned.) Equality changed all that. Thousands of Christians voted with
their feet and left for pastures new, usually the United States.
The second Rescript, brought in 1856, took the process a stage fur-
ther and made all (male) subjects of the Ottoman Empire equal. This,
too, appeared to contravene Islamic law as it recognized no difference
between Muslims and peoples of other faiths.
For Muslims, the Rescripts were problematic because they challenged
the very basis of what it was to be a Muslim in a Muslim state. Religion
was relegated to second place. Rather than privileging Islam, the Rescripts
privileged European ideas of citizenship and nationality. Intercommunal
THE REMAKING OF THE MIDDLE EAST 91
tensions rose across the Ottoman Empire throughout the nineteenth cen-
tury. In Damascus in 1840, for example, Jews were accused of a blood
libel after a Capuchin monk disappeared and the blame was placed on
a local Jew. The incident set off a wave of similar accusations across the
region.2 Before the nineteenth century, such accusations, while common
in Europe, were practically unheard of in the Arab world. In the nine-
teenth century, the problem reached what Professor Bernard Lewis calls
“epidemic proportions.”3 Insecurity was spreading. Muslims felt their
dominant position in society was under threat from Great Power patron-
age of religious minorities, from the commercial advantages minorities
gained from that patronage, and from all-round European meddling in
Istanbul’s internal affairs.
For the vast majority of Muslims, the Rescripts and the European
ideas they represented had little or no impact on their self-identity. But
for Istanbul’s cultured elite, Europe and Europe alone had the answers
to the economic and political problems facing the Ottoman Empire. In
1889, a group of exiled intellectuals, writers, and journalists met in Paris,
the ideological heartland of nineteenth-century people power, and set
up the Ottoman Society for Union and Progress (better known as the
Young Turks). They wanted the 1876 Constitution restored. They called
for political reform and participatory government but did not go so far as
to call for the end of the sultan’s rule.4
Given the febrile atmosphere in Istanbul at the time, clandestine (or
exiled) organizations were the order of the day. Even the supposedly loyal
military were not immune. Like Istanbul’s intelligentsia, the Ottoman
military were used to European ideas. From the mid-nineteenth century,
Ottoman soldiers were trained by European instructors in the use of
European-made weapons. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth cen-
turies, secret societies sprang up in army garrisons across the empire. One
of them, the Fatherland Society, was set up in 1905 by none other than the
future father of the Turks, Mustapha Kemal. The word “fatherland” (watan)
was less overtly nationalist than its equivalent in Europe. In the Turkish
context, it embraced the idea of Islamic as well as Ottoman identity.5
Over time, it was through these two channels—the literary elite and
the officer class—that the idea of Turkish national identity took root.
Before the war, it remained an elite movement. The groundswell of sup-
port that would transform it into a mass movement did not come until the
end of the war and the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. Turkey’s national
consciousness was forged, as was the case with so many of the postwar
nation-states in Europe, in blood on the battlefield.
Turkish nationalism, however, presented problems for the Arabs of the
Ottoman Empire who shared a religion with the Turks but not a language
or a land. In the Arab provinces, the idea of nationalism gained traction

in certain circles before the First World War, but here, too, it was an elite
movement, drawing support mostly from the class of notables in major
cities like Damascus. It did not have widespread support in the commu-
nity, the majority of whom saw it as an alien concept.
In Europe, the nation-state as a political unit met a political need
that already existed. In the Middle East, it was a different story. Beirut
and Baghdad were not clamoring for independence from the Ottoman
Empire. Damascus was not a hotbed of insurrection against Istanbul. 6
Instead of the grassroots movement it was in Europe, and later in Turkey,
nation-building in the Arab Middle East was a top-down process imposed
by outsiders. Right from the outset, it lacked legitimacy among the people
who would have to live with the consequences of it.
That lack of legitimacy did not deter the British or the French. They
had won the war, and validated by that victory, they could now impose
their terms and remake the Middle East as they saw fit.
10
From Sykes-Picot to the

Treaty of Sèvres: Betrayals,
Backstabbing, and Broken
Promises
There is a saying that history belongs to the winners. The victors do not
just win the war on the battlefield. They win the war of narratives that
follows. Their view of history becomes the view of history.
Even more importantly, geography belongs to the winners. And after
the armistice of November 11, 1918, the victors quickly set about remak-
ing the world in their own image. In 1919, against the breathtaking
backdrop of the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles, the Allies dis-
membered the Austro-Hungarian and German Empires and redrew the
map of Europe. A year later, the diplomatic action turned to the Italian
Rivera resort of San Remo, then to the Parisian suburb of Sèvres where
the Allies dismembered the Ottoman Empire and redrew the map of the
Middle East.
In the end, the Treaty of Sèvres of August 10, 1920, echoed the aspira-
tions of Sykes-Picot. At Sèvres, France got Lebanon and Syria. Britain
got Iraq, Palestine, and Transjordan. In addition, London kept Egypt, the
ports along the Arabian coast, and retained a controlling influence in
Arabia. The Ottoman Empire was reduced to a rump state in its heartland
of Anatolia.
The reason Britain and France were able to secure their objectives so
successfully at Sèvres was very simple. There was no one to stop them. Of
the other Allies, Russia had left the war in 1917 following the Revolution
and the collapse of the Romanov Empire. The United States and Italy,
each for different domestic reasons, had dropped out of the negotiations
before Sèvres reached a conclusion.1 And the Ottomans, as the defeated
power, were in no position to negotiate.
Yet the almost uncanny similarity between Sykes-Picot and Sèvres
made the process of remapping the Middle East seem a lot smoother than
it actually was. Beneath the surface harmony of the peace conferences, the
reality was very different. Betrayals, backstabbing, and broken promises
were the order of the day. The Allies had little compunction about lying to
each other and even less about lying to the people of the Middle East.2
The fate of Greater Syria was a perfect illustration of this. France
wanted it. Picot thought he had secured it. But his negotiations with his
English counterpart in 1915–6 made no allowance for what Britain was
up to in Arabia and the effect those actions would have in Greater Syria.
Britain’s interest in Arabia dated back centuries and London’s strategy
had not changed in all that time. In the twentieth century, as in the nine-
teenth, Britain focused on developing relationships with a small num-
ber of influential ruling families. At the turn of the twentieth century,
three rival families were competing for control of the vast arid territory
of Arabia: the Rasheeds in the north, the Saudis in the center, and the
Hashemis in the west. The Hashemis had a special prestige as they claimed
descent from the Prophet’s family, and their leader, Sharif Husayn, was in
charge of Islam’s Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina.
In Sharif Husayn, London saw an opportunity. If he could be per-
suaded to use his prestige as a descendant of the Prophet and as guardian
of the Holy Cities to launch a holy war against the Ottoman sultan, it
could turn the course of the war in the Middle East.
Promises were made to the sharif. The British would provide the logis-
tical support for him to stage a revolt against Ottoman rule. In return,
when the war was over, Husayn would be given a kingdom. Precisely
where that kingdom would be was never specified. In October 1915, not
long before Sykes and Picot first met, Sir Henry McMahon, British High
Commissioner in Egypt, sent the by-now-infamous letter to the sharif
in which he told him he would be given the entire region except for the
parts of Greater Syria the French wanted. But Sir Henry, based as he was
in Cairo, made his promise without authorization from London. And
London remained deliberately vague. That vagueness encouraged the
sharif to believe what he wanted to believe and he wanted Greater Syria
as part of his kingdom.
The Arab Revolt went ahead in 1916. Made famous by the involvement
of T. E. Lawrence, the Revolt secured some of Britain’s military objectives
in the Middle East but by no means all of them. From early on, it was clear
the sharif’s ambition did not match his popularity, and the Arab Revolt
FROM SYKES-PICOT TO THE TREATY OF SÈVRES 95
was not the mass uprising the British had hoped for. Even though people
in the Arab provinces of the Ottoman Empire had much to complain of
when it came to Istanbul’s handling of the war—dissent was mercilessly
crushed; harvests and animals were routinely requisitioned by the sul-
tan’s army without a thought for how the local population were to be fed,
so famine became rife (the older generation in Lebanon still recall those
days with a shudder when they think of what people were forced to do to
buy even the smallest amounts of food)—it was a step too far for most
Muslims to turn against fellow Muslims and side with Europeans who
were currently occupying most of Muslim North Africa.
By July 1917, Lawrence and the sharif’s men had captured Aqaba
on the Red Sea coast. The year 1917 was good for British forces in the
Middle East. Imperial troops (mostly Indian) captured Iraq in March.
In December, General Sir Edmund Allenby’s army broke through into
Palestine from Egypt and made it to Jerusalem in time for Christmas. In a
deliberate contrast to the kaiser’s grand entry into the Old City on horse-
back in 1898, Allenby strolled through the Jaffa Gate on foot.
The next goal for the British was Damascus. From Palestine, British
forces set out for central Syria in 1918, and in October, they captured it.
Here, too, the Allied entry into the city was deliberately choreographed.
Faysal, the sharif of Mecca’s son, was to lead the troops into the city that
had once ruled the Arab world. That way, the Allied arrival looked less of
a foreign invasion than a local liberation.3
It did not go to plan. Faysal and his men arrived too late, and Allenby’s
army had to take the city themselves. But this delay was the least of
Britain’s—or Faysal’s—problems. The battle for Greater Syria now began
in earnest. The French insisted Sykes-Picot be honored and claimed Syria
as theirs. Faysal insisted otherwise. He tried to gather nationalist support
for an independent Syria and proclaimed himself king. In the ensuing
political chaos, law and order fell apart.
The British, with nearly all of the Ottoman provinces of the Middle
East under their military command, saw no reason to assist French impe-
rial ambitions and looked for ways to wriggle out of Sykes-Picot. Faysal
was a useful pawn in their greater game. As such, he was the only Arab
invited to speak at the Paris peace conferences and he was invited purely
because it suited British interests. The British were far less accommodat-
ing of other Arabs who wanted to make their case at Paris. They banned
the Egyptian delegation (the Wafd ) from attending and sent the leader
of the delegation, Sad Zaghlul, into exile in Malta. When Egyptians
launched a popular uprising in March 1919 against the decision, Britain
deployed the army and appointed General (now Lord) Allenby to run
the country.
Within Greater Syria, Faysal was able to garner a degree of support

for his claims to be king. People who had previously shown little enthusi-
asm for nationalism changed their position when it meant independence
from a European power rather than from the Muslim Ottomans. Faysal’s
appeal, however, was limited by the fact he was not Syrian himself.
The turbulent situation in Greater Syria was eventually settled in the
summer of 1920, and it was settled in a way that would become a fixture
of politics in the Middle East in the twentieth century: by the use of force.
On July 24, 1920, French forces attacked Faysal’s supporters at Maysaloun
just outside Damascus. They used every weapon at their disposal from
air power to heavy shelling. The residents of Damascus were left stunned
by the bombardment. Faysal’s men were outgunned, outnumbered, and
very quickly defeated. He fled south to the British zone. It was upon arriv-
ing in Damascus on July 26 that French General (and hero of the Great
War) Henri Gouraud made straight for Saladin’s tomb and declared to the
long-dead conqueror of Jerusalem: “We have returned.”
In the struggle for Syria, the British made conflicting promises both to
France and to Faysal. When it suited them, they said France should have
Syria. When it suited them otherwise, they said Faysal should have it.
In the end, when London had to decide one way or the other, the British
did what they always did in the Middle East and sided with their fellow
imperial power.
Faysal, however, was not abandoned by his British allies. He was given
a kingdom after all. Just not the one he expected. He was made king of the
newly created Iraq. After three years of British military occupation, Iraq
was rebellious. A tribal uprising in the summer of 1920 proved difficult to
quell and left thousands dead. Given the tense atmosphere in the country,
the British were keen to install a puppet ruler through whom they could
exercise power.
Faysal fitted the bill perfectly. London quickly set about securing pub-
lic support for Faysal’s “election” as king—a process that involved a num-
ber of dubious practices, including Britain’s man in Baghdad, Sir Percy
Cox, inviting a rival of Faysal to tea and having him arrested as he left and
deported to the British colony of Ceylon, now Sri Lanka.4
In August 1921, in what would become another fixture of politics in the
Middle East in the twentieth century, Faysal “won” just short of 100 per-
cent of the vote and was duly declared king. The writer-cum-diplomat-
cum-kingmaker Gertrude Bell, Cox’s cohort in arranging Faysal’s ascent
to the throne, declared afterwards that she would never again be involved
in such a process. It was too exhausting.
While Bell and Cox publicly succeeded in making Faysal king, the
country’s real rulers were the British. The Anglo-Iraqi Treaty of 1922
made sure of it. Everything from finance to foreign affairs remained

under London’s control. Faysal’s new kingdom was independent in name
only. Faysal himself did not appear to mind. British support suited him.
It suited his brother too. Abdullah, the sharif of Mecca’s favorite son, was
also given a kingdom by the British. In 1922 the province of Palestine was
split in two and Abdullah was made amir (prince or ruler) of the newly
created Transjordan, which became the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan
in 1946.
Through the sharif’s two sons, Britain secured their interests in the
center of the Middle East. Abdullah remained in control of Jordan until
his death in 1951. The country’s current king, also called Abdullah, is
his great-grandson. Faysal’s family, however, did not fare so well. Faysal
remained on the throne until his death in 1933, when he was succeeded by
his son, Ghazi. But in 1958, Ghazi’s son, another Faysal, was overthrown
and killed in a military coup that brought the Baath Party (and eventually
Saddam Hussein) to power.
As for the sharif, he remained a king without a kingdom. He lost the
battle for Arabia to the Saudi family who unified their various domains
into the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in 1932—making the country the first
in history to be named after the family who founded it. The discovery of
oil would, in time, make that family one of the richest in the world.
The regional repercussions of the Anglo-French carve-up of Greater

Syria show how complicated the process of nation-building could become
when the main players made conflicting promises to each other and to
the other parties involved. An even more complicated example of this
kind of diplomatic doublespeak happened over the Ottoman province of
Palestine or, as it came to be known, The Twice Promised Land.
Both Britain and France wanted it. Sykes and Picot could not come
up with an answer, so they shelved it. The ink was barely dry on their
arrangement when Paris made a backdoor deal with the Russians to
secure French control over the Christian Holy Land.5
London’s diplomats had also been trying to woo the Russians. In
November 1917, Britain issued the Balfour Declaration, which outlined
London’s view on the future of Palestine. Britain mistakenly assumed
Russian Jews wielded great, if unseen, influence in Petrograd and London
wanted to show support for Zionism in the hope of keeping Russia in
the war. 6 The Balfour Declaration appeared in The Times on November
9, just a day after the Russia’s Provisional Government fell.7 The new
revolutionary rulers of Russia paid no heed to Balfour and proceeded

with their plans to leave the war.8
For some in the British elite, there was more to the Balfour Declaration
than the power politics of the war. The British Prime Minister, David
Lloyd George, had been sympathetic to the Zionist cause for the best
part of 20 years—as a lawyer, he was the British representative of
Theodor Herzl’s Zionist movement—and was personally acquainted
with Dr. Chaim Weizmann, President of the British Zionist Federation.
(Weizmann was a chemist who discovered an alternative method of pro-
ducing acetone, a key component in explosives. He gave his work away
free to the British government to help the war effort. He would later
become Israel’s first president.)9
Religion also played a role in attracting support for Zionism among
the British political elite. In an age when people grew up reading the Bible
(in many homes, it was the only book), the prospect of a Jewish home in
the Holy Land appealed to many revivalist Protestants on a very deep
level. They were not necessarily interested in supporting the rights of Jews
per se, but they were interested in the Jewish Return to Zion because in
that they saw fulfillment of the prophecies of the Last Days in the Book of
Revelations. Only when the Jews were gathered in the Holy Land would
the Messiah reappear. Decades later, the religious right in the United States
would take the same view and make the same political conclusions.
The Balfour Declaration was named after British Foreign Secretary
Lord Balfour. Now notorious as the document that made one of the most
contradictory promises in the history of the Middle East, the Balfour
Declaration promised British support for the establishment of a Jewish
home in Palestine—as long as any such home did not impinge on the
rights of the Christians and Muslims already living there.10 Such a prom-
ise was clearly going to be impossible to implement. Worse, it satisfied no
one. For Arabs, it went too far. For Zionists, it did not go far enough.
After Sèvres, the King-Crane Commission was set up to look into the
problem of Palestine. Dr. Henry King was head of Oberlin College in
Ohio, and Charles Crane was a trustee of Roberts College in Istanbul.
Both men were politically well connected in Washington and were the
personal appointees of US President Wilson. The two men traveled tire-
lessly round the region canvassing the views of people directly affected
by the proposed changes in Palestine. But their efforts were to be in vain.
Once again, Britain and France joined forces to make sure the report was
left to gather dust on a shelf deep in bureaucratic oblivion.
With King-Crane out of the way, it fell to Britain, as the occupying
power on the ground, to take control of the land of Christ’s birth. London
had, at last, got what it wanted.
The Treaty of Sèvres made the aspirations of Sykes-Picot a political

reality.
Under the terms of the treaty, the new states—Lebanon and Syria, Iraq
and Jordan—were to become independent and members of the newly
formed League of Nations. In theory, it was the responsibility of the man-
dated powers (Britain for Iraq and Jordan; France for Lebanon and Syria)
to prepare them for independence.
The reality was very different. Neither London nor Paris had any inten-
tion of ceding control of their proxy states. The French, in a contradictory
blend of missionary zeal and revolutionary fervor, pursued a policy of
direct rule in Lebanon and Syria. The British, in an equally contradictory
blend of pragmatism and elitism, pursued a policy of indirect rule in Iraq
and Jordan through the kings they had handpicked for the job.
The result was that the Treaty of Sèvres did not abolish the idea of
empire in the Middle East. It entrenched it. In doing so, Sèvres raised
more questions than it answered: questions that, over the course of the
twentieth century and into the twenty-first, would become ever more
urgently in need of answers.
11
The Poisoned Legacy and

the War’s Unanswered
Questions
The Treaty of Sèvres created a whole new reality in the Middle East.
The people of the region were now citizens of nation-states. Their
identity was based on their nationality, no longer their faith. Muslims
were no longer the favored majority; Jews and Christians no longer the
protected minority. In the new nation-states, all citizens were equal. All
had the same rights and responsibilities before the law. Which raises the
question: where did Islam fit into this new reality?
For the French, the answer was simple. It did not. Under French con-
trol, Lebanon and Syria were put on the path toward the secular model of
the French state. The French Revolution separated Church and State—in
theory, if not always in practice—and that same separation was now
to take place in Lebanon and Syria. In the French worldview, religion
belonged in the private realm, not the public arena. To them, the secular
and the sacred did not mix.
The British also adopted a separation of Church and State, although
their approach was more hands-off. The British had no interest in remak-
ing Muslim society. Their primary concern was strategic: the mainte-
nance of their empire. In the countries they controlled, the British ruled
through kings and let these kings speak for Islam. The crowned heads of
the new Middle East thus became symbols of the country’s religious iden-
tity, while, behind the scenes, the British were the ones really in control.
In the Sèvres states of the new Middle East, Islam no longer touched
upon every aspect of a believer’s life. In the French-sponsored states, it
was pushed to the margins of public life (it certainly had no place in poli-
tics). And in the British ones, it became a useful tool to legitimize the
British-backed ruling families.
The relegation of religion to the background of public and political life

was good news for the religious minorities in the region. They were now
on an equal footing with everyone else. But it left many Muslims with an
acute sense of dislocation. The ground had quite literally shifted beneath
them. With the Ottoman Empire carved up, the caliphate was consigned
to memory. For centuries, it had signified the unity of the Muslim com-
munity and provided a powerful link to the earliest days of the Islamic
community and to the Prophet’s first successors. That was now over and
there was nothing to replace it.
The First World War left the Arab Muslim world defeated and dis-
membered. It was a searing blow and many found it hard to come to
terms with the new reality. They needed an outlet to express their sense
of brotherhood as Muslims; something to show that, for them, Islam is
more than a religion; it is a way of life.
The British and French were oblivious to this sense of dislocation.
They were also oblivious to the potential consequences of it. Namely that
European attempts to de-Islamize the public-political arena were leaving
a vacuum that would achieve the exact opposite of what London and Paris
wanted. The French policy of secularization and the British policy of
promoting puppet kings to speak for Islam would, over time, encourage
many Muslims to rediscover Islam in a new, politicized form. Because, for
a large number of Muslims, the sacred and the secular did mix.
None of this was relevant to Britain and France. For London and Paris,
the new Middle East was an opportunity to entrench their interests and
achieve their strategic objectives. Both kept substantial deployments of
troops in the region. Both blocked attempts to open up the political pro-
cess to anyone who might challenge their interests. And both remained
absolutely committed to maintaining the order they created. From now
on, the watchword was stability.
As a result, the Middle East became less of a region, more of a sphere
of interest. For the Great Powers of the West, the new status quo had to
be upheld at all costs—because it was their status quo. Which meant the
new system became equal in its inequality. Instead of abolishing the sec-
ond-class status of non-Muslims and making all citizens equal, everyone
now came second to European interests. Exactly how tenable this situa-
tion was over the long term was open to question. But, again, the British
and French seemed to have no answer, no strategy, and no real grasp of
what was going on. They seemed to believe they could indefinitely stand,
King Canute-like, against the wishes of local people and fend off calls for
independence.
The League of Nations assigned the Sèvres states to London and Paris
on the grounds that they would prepare them for independence. There
THE POISONED LEGACY 103
were people in the Middle East, Muslims as well as members of other

faiths, who initially welcomed British and French involvement in nation-
building, seeing it as an opportunity to develop business links, secure
investment, and arrange technology transfers. But they welcomed the
Europeans on the understanding they would be true to their word and
leave when the job was done.
British and French actions throughout the 1920s and 1930s suggested
otherwise. The British, for example, said of Iraq after the “election” of
Faysal as king that the country “was to be administered according to the
wishes of the inhabitants of the country insofar as they coincided with
strict British . . . control.”1 This was almost an exact echo of the words
Lord Cromer used when he ruled Egypt in the nineteenth century. His
spirit was clearly alive and well because nothing had changed in the
new century. The French took a similar view. Professor David Fromkin
in his magisterial work on the creation of the modern Middle East, A
Peace to End All Peace, shows how the French paid no attention to their
obligation to the League of Nations to set Syria and Lebanon on the
path to self-governance. Quite the opposite: Paris viewed the commit-
ment as “window-dressing, and approached Syria and Lebanon in an
annexationist spirit.” 2
As the years passed, the British and French dug deeper into their new
territories and responded to any political opposition to their rule by crim-
inalizing it as a security threat. Given the asymmetric balance of power
between the rulers and ruled, there was little local people could do about
it. In the end, it would take another world war to make the British and
French go.
All of this left a legacy. It was during this era that many people first
experienced the contradictions between what the West says and what it
does. During the interwar years, the Great Powers repeatedly demon-
strated a tendency in the Middle East to say one thing and do another. If,
nowadays, there is a barrier of mistrust between East and West, much of
it goes back to what went on during this period.
This mistrust was further fueled by the nature of state creation in the
Middle East. It lacked legitimacy from the start. And this left a huge ques-
tion mark hanging over the Anglo-French Middle East: just how viable
were the states created by the Treaty of Sèvres in the long term? Iraq,
Syria, and Lebanon were not ethnically united. Such states are hard, if
not impossible, to govern. In the absence of a shared sense of nationhood
upon which to build the new nation, politics coalesce around issues of
identity. Politics based on identity distort the political arena and turn it
into a sectarian fight for survival. When different groups compete for
state resources under these circumstances, victory for one group is seen
as defeat for another. Elections, if they are held at all, turn into little more
than mini-censuses or sectarian headcounts. People from one commu-
nity simply do not vote for representatives from another. Even if you pas-
sionately disagree with what “your” group is doing, it is not possible to
vote against them. To do so would be a step too far, seen as selling out or,
worse, as betrayal.
Identity politics are the most dangerous form of us-and-them politics.
States where they are the norm are like tinderboxes waiting to explode.
All they need is a spark. And what nation-states of this kind have in com-
mon, whether they are in the Middle East or in Europe, is how they were
created. In almost all cases, they were put together by outsiders with no
regard to their internal fault lines. In some cases, as with the British in
Iraq or the French in Syria, those fault lines were deliberately manipu-
lated to make a policy of divide-and-rule easier.
In the short term, such a strategy might work. But in the long run, it
cannot. Communal tension is always too close to the surface. And the
longer it festers, the more dangerous the eventual explosion will be. This
kind of nation-building is not the road to consensus politics, good gover-
nance, or long-term stability. It is the road to civil war.
Looking at the Middle East a century on from Sykes-Picot, the conse-
quences of the lines they drew on the map are painfully clear. The inter-
nal contradictions of these states are pulling them apart before our eyes.
The current crisis facing Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon is existential. When
the dust eventually settles and the wars eventually end, these states will
no longer exist in their present form. And such is the severity of this
crisis that Jordan may not prove immune and may yet be sucked into
the quagmire too. Yet all of this was avoidable. The Arab provinces of
the Ottoman Empire had very strong regional and tribal identities. In the
long run, those regional and tribal loyalties would have provided a better
basis for the boundaries of the new nation-states of the Middle East than
the imperial ambitions of London or Paris. And it would have been a bet-
ter idea to leave it to the citizens of these new states to work out what role
religion should have in the public space for themselves rather than create
countries with sectarianism at their core.
In the wake of the First World War, the Middle East was not the
only part of the world to suffer from lines drawn in the wrong places
on the map. The Treaty of Versailles did for Europe what the Treaty of
Sèvres would do for the Middle East. US President Woodrow Wilson’s
Fourteen Points supporting the principle of self-determination inspired
people across Europe to seize the moment and claim their independence.
Representatives of the Czechs, the Poles, and others turned up at the Paris
peace conferences to lobby for their right to national self-determination.
THE POISONED LEGACY 105
The fact that many of them had fought alongside the Allies during the
war strengthened their position.
The main difference between the new Europe and the new Middle
East, however, was that the Allies had no intention of running the new
nation-states of Europe. You might think that would have made the pro-
cess of nation-building in Europe more straightforward than it was in the
Middle East. But it did not. Here too, the Great Powers made a mess of it.
Across Europe, new nations emerged from the dismembered Habsburg
and Hohenzollern Empires. Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland appeared
on the map as newly independent countries. Romania doubled in size.
The German city of Danzig became a Free City. Serbia and Montenegro
merged with a huge chunk of the former Austro-Hungarian Empire to
become the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes. Imperial Austria
became a rump state, a shadow of its Habsburg glory. Elsewhere, Estonia,
Latvia, Lithuania, and Finland emerged as new nations from the remains
of the Romanov Empire.
And as happened with the new nations of the Middle East, these new
European nations had borders that did not correspond with their his-
tories or their regional identities. Large populations of Germans found
themselves living beyond German or Austrian borders. The newly cre-
ated nations of Poland and Czechoslovakia had large populations of eth-
nic Germans—a fact that would have devastating consequences for both
countries, for the rest of the continent, and for the rest of the world less
than 20 years later when Adolf Hitler sent his storm troops in to reclaim
them for the German Fatherland. It would take another world war fol-
lowed by a very long Cold War followed by a catastrophic civil war in
the Balkans before the map of Europe would more accurately reflect the
wishes of the people who lived on the continent.
The cost of those wars is beyond measure. New words and new
phrases came into the language—Holocaust, Final Solution, ethnic
cleansing, genocide, Weapons of Mass Destruction, Mutually Assured
Destruction—to describe entirely new horrors. The history of Europe in
the twentieth century is a stark lesson in what can go wrong when lines are
drawn on the wrong part of the map and when politics fails (or is denied
the chance) to offer an answer. It also shows how easily demagogues and
dictators can manipulate the genuine grievances of the situation to push
their own cynical advantage. What is happening now in the Middle East
is a similar process: lines in the wrong place on the map and the failure
of politics have led to a series of wars that are redrawing the map with the
aim of creating a new political order.
One part of the Ottoman world that did manage to find a way through
the Paris peace conferences was the future Turkish Republic. Under the
leadership of one of their greatest soldiers, Mustapha Kemal, the Turks

fought their way to independence. The Turkish Republic was recognized
at the Treaty of Lausanne in 1923.
Other people were not so lucky. The Treaty of Sèvres promised auton-
omy for Armenia. The Armenians suffered unimaginable losses in the
massacres of 1915–6 when it is said that as many as one-and-a-half mil-
lion of their people were killed by the Ottomans. (These figures are
accepted in the West but are seriously questioned by Turkey.) After the
war, Armenia declared independence in 1918, but that independence was
short-lived. The new country was swallowed up by Bolshevik Russia in
1920 and did not achieve independence again until 1990.
The Treaty of Sèvres also promised autonomy to the Kurds. Unlike the
Armenians, the Kurds did not get their state after the war. And they still
have not.
The Treaty of Sèvres left two other groups of people without a country.
And the story of those two peoples—and their struggle over the same
piece of land—has proven to be one of the Middle East’s most dangerous
fault lines and one of its most intractable problems. It was the question
Sykes and Picot could not answer and the question that, today, still eludes
an answer.
And the failure to answer that question has turned the conflict over
the land that is holy to Jew, Christian, and Muslim into an all-or-nothing
battle for survival with repercussions far beyond the Middle East.
Part III
All or Nothing: Why

All Roads Lead to
Jerusalem
12
Where to Begin?
I n a region beset by wars, one war in the Middle East has lasted longer
than any other: the war between the Israelis and the Palestinians. But
when it comes to setting this long-running conflict in its historical con-
text, where should you begin?
In 1967 when Israel won the Six-Day War and, later, claimed Jerusalem as
the country’s capital?
In 1948 when the State of Israel was created after the British left?
In 1917 when Britain took Palestine from the Ottomans and ended nearly
1,300 years of Islamic rule?
Or do you begin further back?
In 1516 when the Ottomans won Palestine from its Egyptian rulers?
In 1187 when the legendary Saladin defeated the Crusaders and brought
Jerusalem back into the Islamic fold?
In 1099 when the Crusaders seized Jerusalem from its Muslim rulers and
slaughtered the city’s Jewish and Muslim inhabitants?
Or do you begin even further back?
In 638 when Muslim armies won Jerusalem from the Byzantines?
In 70 when the Romans, led by Titus, destroyed Herod’s Temple in
Jerusalem and exiled the Jews from their Holiest City?
Or do you go right back to 586 bc when Nebuchadnezzar invaded
Jerusalem, destroyed the Temple, the Holy City, and sent the Jews into
exile in Babylon?
Where you begin is important for a number of reasons, not least

because your choice of starting point can be interpreted as endorsing
one side’s position over the other. The conflict between the Israelis and
the Palestinians is one of the most contentious issues in the world today.
It is so contentious that it has become almost impossible to write about
it without offending someone or without your comments being misin-

terpreted. Now that social media has made it so effortlessly easy to heap
anonymous abuse on anyone who endorses one view over another; some
historians and writers choose to save themselves the hassle and ignore
the subject altogether. As for teaching the subject, that in itself has
become so much of a challenge, how the subject is taught has become an
object of study.
All of this matters because this conflict is no longer about land and
land alone. It is a battle of narratives between two competing versions of
history, between two competing legitimacies. Under these circumstances,
history becomes a battleground, a frontline, an alternative form of propa-
ganda, where the pen can indeed be mightier than the sword.
This presents a serious challenge for historians who, by training, are
supposed to be neutral and whose allegiance is supposed to be to the facts
and the accurate and fair representation of them. But if the facts them-
selves are under dispute, the accurate and fair representation of anything
is no easy matter. The names you use become overloaded with signifi-
cance. The same goes for the dates you choose to frame your narrative.
In this minefield, whatever you say and however you say it will be inter-
preted by someone, somewhere, as taking a side.
Take, for example, events in 1948. Israelis refer to the war that led to the
foundation of the State of Israel as the War of Independence. Palestinians
call it the Catastrophe (al-Nakba in Arabic). There is not much common
ground between the two.
So, if you are a historian, which term do you use? If you call it the War
of Independence, Palestinians and their supporters think you have taken
Israel’s side. And if you call it the Catastrophe, Israelis and their support-
ers see it as a negative judgment on Israel’s right to exist.
Another example comes from another war: the Arab-Israeli War in
1973. It happened during the Jewish High Holiday of Yom Kippur, so
in Israel it is called the Yom Kippur War. In this particular year, Yom
Kippur happened to fall at the same time as the Muslim Holy Month of
Ramadan (the Islamic calendar is lunar and is 11 days shorter than the
calendar used in the West), so in the Arab world, the war is called the
Ramadan War.
Because the use of either term may be seen as endorsing one version
of events over the other (even if that is not the intention), historians tend
to use the more neutral term “October War.” But even an attempt to
be neutral will not stop accusations of bias. In this battle of competing
legitimacies, where one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter,
where one man’s defense force is another man’s army of occupation,
where one people’s triumph is another people’s tragedy, the refusal to
WHERE TO BEGIN? 111
wholeheartedly endorse one point of view over another can still be seen
as closet support for the “other” side.
This is more than a debate over semantics. For Israelis and Palestinians
alike, the stakes could not be higher. For them, it is a matter of life and
death. The day-to-day realities of their lives are the headlines the rest of
the world can switch off if the conflict becomes too much to bear. Israelis
and Palestinians do not have that luxury. So, if an outside observer of the
conflict appears to privilege one side over the other, it provokes a reaction
because it looks as if one side’s suffering is more important than the other,
as if some lives matter more than others.
In a conflict that has spread far, far beyond conventional warfare, where
the battle lines are so blurred that no one is safe and where, in 2014, peo-
ple as uninvolved in armed combat as teenagers hiking on a summer day,
young boys playing on the beach, a teenager on his way to early morning
prayer at the mosque, commuters waiting for a train, children sleeping
in their beds, and men praying in a synagogue—all became fatalities of
this conflict; how do you begin to tell this story in a way that adequately
reflects the complex histories of Israeli and Palestinian? Because without
that, there is no chance of understanding what is really going on in this
conflict or what might happen in future. And without that, you cannot
begin to understand the modern Middle East.
Perhaps history can offer an answer.
Over a thousand years ago, one of the greatest historians who ever
lived, a man named Abu Jafar Muhammad bin Jarir al-Tabari (838–932),
produced a monumental work called The History of Prophets and Kings.
The English translation runs to 38 volumes. Al-Tabari was a meticulous
historian so devoted to his craft that he once sold the sleeves of his
shirt to buy bread so he could keep working.1 The scope of his History
is proof of that devotion. It stretches from creation right up to the year
915 and is widely regarded as the most universal history of the Islamic
world. Its influence is such that it became the model for subsequent
histories of Islam.
Al-Tabari is little known outside the Arab Islamic world, yet his con-
tribution to history is enormous. More than that, he wrote with a fresh-
ness that gives immediacy to the events he describes. Everything from
the fate of the Prophet’s nail clippings to a caliph’s inconsolable grief over
the death of his favorite slave girl, no detail is overlooked or omitted in
his History.2 His account of the harrowing martyrdom of the Prophet’s
grandson al-Husayn—the event reenacted every year by Shi‘is—is so poi-
gnant; it is hard not to be moved by it.
From a modern standpoint, what is particularly interesting about al-
Tabari is how he chose to tell history. He checked his sources and he cited
those sources. But if his sources disagreed; if, for example, he unearthed
several different versions of the same event, al-Tabari did not ditch one
version in preference for another. Nor did he try to mold them into one
comprehensive narrative. He simply gave all sides of the story and let the
reader decide. Often finishing the account with a philosophical “Allah
knows best.”
So, in what follows, we will take the Tabari route. There will be no
attempt to create an overarching narrative of the Israeli–Palestinian
conflict. No attempt to take sides. No attempt to offer easy answers. The
history of this conflict is too complicated for that. Instead, both sides of
the story are presented, starting with the Israelis. This is not to give the
Israelis the first word—or, for that matter, to give the Palestinians the
last word—but for the very simple reason that “I” comes before “P” in the
English alphabet. And since it is so difficult to find a noncontentious date
to start with, we will start with a place—one that is revered and respected
by Jew, Christian, and Muslim alike: the Holy City of Jerusalem.
13
Jerusalem:
The Temple Mount
In the Old City of Jerusalem is the Temple Mount.

Known as Har ha-Bayit in Hebrew, this is the beating heart of Jewish
religious life. Here is the home of the Ark of the Covenant. Here is the
Temple of Solomon. Here is the Holy of Holies: the place so sacred no
human foot may touch it because it is the earthly home of God.
Nearly two thousand years ago, in the year 70, the Temple built on this
sacred spot by Herod was destroyed by a Roman army led by the emperor’s
son, Titus. All that was left was the Western (or Wailing) Wall. Following
the destruction of the Temple, slaughter or slavery was the fate of nearly
all Jerusalem’s Jews. Thousands were killed. A small group resisted and
staged a suicidal, and now legendary, last stand at the fortress of Masada in
the desert outside the city. It took the Romans three years to bring the siege
of Masada to an end, and, when they did, they also ended Jewish rebellions
against their rule for the time being. Elsewhere in the Roman-ruled prov-
ince of Judaea, life went on pretty much as normal for most Jews.1
Sixty years later, in the 130s, Jewish resistance to Rome reemerged in
the form of Simon bar Kochba, otherwise known as the Son of the Star.
He was incensed by Emperor Hadrian’s decision to flatten what was left of
Jerusalem and build a Roman city on the ruins named Aelia Capitolina,
complete with a temple to the empire’s very own god Jupiter.2
Simon bar Kochba launched a ruthless but ultimately doomed rebel-
lion. Fighting against the greatest empire on earth, the odds were stacked
against him. In victory, Hadrian was merciless. He upheld his recently
imposed ban on circumcision, the sacred ritual that proved Jewish men’s
obedience to their God. By doing so, Hadrian threatened the future of the
Jewish community.
Jerusalem itself effectively ceased to exist. As did Jewish Judaea. And

this is where the name “Palestine” enters the story. Hadrian renamed
Judaea “Palaestina.” It was a name deliberately chosen to wound, as it
derived from the name of the Jews’ Biblical enemies, the Philistines. 3 The
Jewish exile from Jerusalem now began in earnest. It became a capital
offence for Jews to go anywhere near their Holy City.
It was not the first time the Jewish Temple had been destroyed. The
Babylonians had done the same thing when they invaded the Kingdom
of Judah seven centuries earlier. But within five decades, the Jews had
recovered, rebuilt, and reclaimed power. Nor was it the first time Jews
had been banned from Jerusalem. The Babylonian exile following the
destruction of the Temple must have seemed just as catastrophic to the
people who endured it. But in exile, the Jews regrouped and recovered
and, eventually, thrived. Babylon became an important center of Jewish
life and learning—it even produced its own Talmud; and right up to the
middle of the twentieth century, Baghdad was home to a large and pros-
perous Jewish community.
There was also the fact that not every Jew lived in Jerusalem or chose to
make the Holy City the physical focus of his or her daily life. There were
substantial Jewish communities throughout the Roman Empire, includ-
ing a large one in Alexandria in Egypt, and the lives of these Jews were
largely unaffected by events in Jerusalem.
For Jews, however, Jerusalem is more than a place. It is almost an
article of faith.4 The city is their House of God and the symbol of their
covenant with the Almighty. Losing access to the city is, therefore, like
losing a link with God. To be deprived of the possibility of praying there
was a devastating blow for Jews regardless of whether or not they lived
in the city.
Such an intense spiritual connection to one place does not exist to the
same degree in Christianity. Christians, consequently, do not have quite
the same sense of sacred geography. Jesus is their Jerusalem, their link to
God, their spiritual center of gravity. Muslims, by contrast, know all about
sacred geography. The meaning that Mecca has for Muslims is the same
that Jerusalem has for Jews. And Muslims, as well as revering Mecca, also
share the Jewish reverence for Jerusalem: before they turned to Mecca in
prayer, Muslims turned to Jerusalem. The city was the original qibla, the
direction of prayer, in the early days of Islam. These cities, therefore, do
not just exist on the map. They exist within the hearts and minds of the
faithful. And this invests them with enormous power, both religious and
political. This is because the best way—sometimes the only way—to fulfill
your sacred covenant with God by praying in the Holy City sanctified by
His presence is to make sure you control it.
JERUSALEM: THE TEMPLE MOUNT 115
For Jews, then, any exile from Jerusalem was hard to bear.
What, however, would make this exile so uniquely devastating and
make its consequences reverberate through the centuries up to the pres-
ent day was what happened in a small town in Asia Minor named Nicaea
two centuries after the Son of the Star’s ill-fated rebellion. In Nicaea, in
325, Emperor Constantine decided to rewrite history and make the Jews
responsible for Christ’s death.5
Constantine’s Road-to-Damascus moment is the stuff of legend.

In 312, the future ruler of the pagan Roman Empire saw the sign of the
cross in the sky the night before he was to go into battle. Alongside the
cross were the words “By this sign you will conquer.” Constantine took
heed and the rest is history. The next day, he won the Battle of Milvian
Bridge, and the Roman Empire would never be the same again. Under
Constantine, Christ was Rome’s redeemer. (But Constantine himself,
wily operator that he was, hedged his bets right to the very end and left
it until he was on his deathbed in 337 to seal the deal with his God and
become a Christian.)
Under Constantine’s rule, Christianity was no longer a persecuted cult.
The followers of Jesus were no longer mocked and thrown to the lions for
the amusement of the citizens of Rome. Under Constantine, Christianity
enjoyed imperial patronage. But at the time of his epiphany, the faith was
far from united. A ferocious debate was waging over the nature of Christ.
Was he divine or was he human? Was he both? If so, how could a man be
God? How could the Son also be the Father?
One school of thought, known as Arianism after Bishop Arius of
Alexandria, believed the Father and the Son were not the same. 6 Others
disagreed and believed Jesus was coeternal with God. The debate was
intense and threatened to pull the church apart. Constantine convened a
Council of Bishops at Nicaea in 325 to decide the matter.
At the Council, the bishops ruled against Arius and issued a statement
of belief (a creed). Known as the Nicene Creed, it put the Father, the Son,
and the Holy Spirit on an equal footing. Jesus was now God. Amended
slightly in 381, the Creed became a key part of the liturgy during the
Middle Ages and is still recited in services today. As for Arius, he came
to an unusual end. While walking through Constantinople, his insides—
bowels, intestines, liver, the lot—suddenly fell out of him. To say his oppo-
nents were beside themselves with glee at the horrible nature of his death
would be an understatement. They saw it as divine judgment.
What, you might well be wondering, has any of this got to do with
the Jews? In theory: absolutely nothing. But in reality, the Nicene Creed
changed everything. Now that Constantine had endorsed Christianity
and now that Jesus was God, the crucifixion was recast in a whole new
light and the Jews became the villains of the piece. They were now “Christ-
killers.” Barnet Litvinoff explains the effect the Creed had in his semi-
nal study of anti-Semitism, The Burning Bush: Antisemitism and World
History: “The Nicene Creed thus laid the crime of deicide upon the Jews,
a stigma that would survive the current of centuries.” 7
In many ways, the groundwork for blaming Jews for Christ’s death
had actually been done long before Nicaea. According to award-winning
historian Dairmaid MacCulloch, an expert on the history of Christianity,
the early Christians had no wish to find themselves on the wrong side of
Roman imperial power. Yet the Romans had killed their savior. How were
they to square that circle? If the Romans could not be held responsible for
Christ’s death, then who could?
Early Christians found their answer by foisting “the blame on to the
Jewish authorities.”8 In his bestselling A History of Christianity, Professor
MacCulloch refers to two Gospel accounts of the crucifixion. In one, the
Gospel of John has the Jews actively seeking the death penalty for Jesus.9
The Gospel of Matthew has them go even further. They appear to know
perfectly well what they are doing—they seem almost to relish it—and
they also appear to know the repercussions their actions will have for
future generations of their faith.10 These accounts clearly set the Jews up
as the fall guys for Christ’s crucifixion. By contrast, Pontius Pilate, the
representative of the most powerful empire on the planet and a man with
legions at his disposal, appears powerless in the face of the baying Jewish
mob and is therefore absolved of all blame.
All of this had serious long-term consequences. Constantine used
Christianity to buttress his political power, and after Nicaea the Jews
found themselves on the wrong side of that power. Laws against Jews
had been relaxed since the days of Hadrian and a small number were
now allowed to live in Jerusalem. Not any longer. Constantine reintro-
duced the discriminatory laws. And like Hadrian two centuries earlier,
Constantine knew where to hit the Jews where it would hurt the most:
Jerusalem. The Roman city of Aelia Capitolina underwent another trans-
formation. Jupiter was cast aside for Jesus. The New Jerusalem was the
City of Christ.11
Nicaea brought two different processes together and molded them
into one narrative. The first was the decision by early Christians to align
with Rome, as demonstrated by the Gospel accounts of the Crucifixion.
The second was Rome’s subsequent alignment with Christianity, as
demonstrated by Constantine’s conversion. Taken together, these meant

Church and State were now one.
Nicaea then gave that Church and State a powerful legitimizing device:
their own God. And it placed the blame for the earthly death of that God
squarely on the shoulders of one community. All of which meant that as
Christianity spread across the Roman Empire, Jews were sometimes tol-
erated, sometimes not; sometimes persecuted, sometimes not. But there
was always one constant: the Jew was always vulnerable, always the out-
sider, always carrying the burden of Christ’s crucifixion.
The post-Nicene narrative of the Jews as Christ-killers would frame
Judaeo-Christian relations for the next 17 centuries. In fact, it did much
more than that. It poisoned them. Anyone wishing to discriminate against
Jews could, with a considerable degree of justification, claim scriptural
sanction for doing so. Centuries later, in the 1090s, when the Crusaders
set off from France at the Pope’s behest to free Christ’s city from the “infi-
del” Muslim, their first victims were the Jews they met along the way.
Right across Europe, from Speyer to Prague via Worms and Mainz, the
armies of the cross slaughtered Jews in their thousands. And they did not
stop when they reached Jerusalem. The Crusader conquest of the Holy
City was marked by a massacre of its Jewish and Muslim inhabitants. Jews
were burnt alive as they sought refuge in their synagogue. This was not
Christianity’s finest hour.
Worse was to come. Scripturally sanctioned persecution of Jews
became a recurring theme of the Middle Ages in the Christian West.
Wherever religious righteousness and political power came together, it
was almost a certainty that Jews would bear the brunt of it.
When Ferdinand and Isabella completed the Reconquista of Spain with
the conquest of Muslim Granada in 1492 and united the country under
Catholic control, it was not only the defeated Muslims who suffered, the
Jews did too. Their status as the perennial outsider left them defenseless
against a state power determined to make them suffer for a crime-cum-
sin they had never committed. The Dominican Tomás de Torquemada
had occupied the office of Grand Inquisitor since 1483 and he set about
making the lives of Jews hell. And he did so with the full backing of the
church, the state, and the papacy. Successive popes not only endorsed the
Inquisition, they encouraged it. Pope Innocent VIII, for example, sought
to deny Jews safe haven anywhere in the Christian world. According to
him, Christian rulers across the continent had a duty to return to Spain
any Jews fleeing the Inquisition who entered their jurisdiction—even
though any such return meant certain death.12
For Jews, facing death at the stake, exile was the least worst option.
The Middle Ages, therefore, saw massive shifts in population as the
long-established Sephardi Jewish community of Iberia moved, on pain

of death, from Spain in 1492 and from Portugal in 1496 to the less hostile
environments of the Netherlands, Morocco, or the Turkish heartlands of
the Ottoman Empire. In the long run, those who wound up in Morocco
and Istanbul did better. In the Islamic world, where Jews were protected
under Muslim law, their descendants would be spared the fate of Europe’s
Jews in the twentieth century.
In Europe, even when the Middle Ages ended, the persecution went
on. The Inquisition itself did not end until 1834. But prejudice and per-
secution were not confined to Spain. In the self-styled New Rome of the
New Caesars—the Russian Empire of the Romanovs—Jews again found
themselves cast in the role of outsiders in a Christian kingdom. Their out-
sider status was confirmed by banishment to the Pale of Settlement. But
life in the Pale and the social and economic restrictions that went with it
were not the worst of the Jews’ problems. The pogroms of the 1880s, fol-
lowed by those in the first decade of the 1900s, left thousands dead. From
Kiev to Kishinev, no Jew was safe from the rampaging mob.
The fact that some of these pogroms happened at Easter, the festival
commemorating the crucifixion, showed how enduring the link between
the Gospel interpretations of that event and state-sponsored anti-Semi-
tism had become. For Jewish communities in this part of Europe, Easter
was the most dreaded time of year because of the religiously inspired
anger it could unleash.13
The Jewish High Holiday of Pesach (Passover), which sometimes fell at
the same time as Easter, was another occasion that could give rise to that
same form of religiously inspired anger. The idea of a ritual murder or
blood sacrifice had somehow seeped into the European cultural Zeitgeist,
and Jews were periodically accused of murdering a Christian (usually a
child) to use the blood to make the unleavened bread eaten during the
Passover meal or seder.
No matter how unlikely these accusations turned out to be (in some
cases the child who was said to have disappeared did not even exist, as
happened near Toledo in Spain in 1488), they nevertheless led to collec-
tive punishment of the local Jewish community, many of whom would
be burned at the stake for a crime that no one could prove had actually
been committed.14 Accusations of ritual murder persisted into the early
twentieth century.
Over the years, the idea of the Jew as an outsider in Christian Europe
became such a powerful cultural undercurrent in society that it persisted
even when the link between Church and State had officially been broken.
Even free-thinking France, where Jews had been granted equality in 1791,
was not immune to it.15 Almost a century after the Revolution, a court
case split fin-de-siècle Paris in two and showed the power that religiously
inspired ideas still wielded in the secular French Republic.
In 1894, Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jew from a wealthy family in
Alsace (then under German control after Germany’s victory in the war of
1870–1), was accused and convicted of treason for selling state secrets to
Germany and Italy even though German and Italian Intelligence said they
had never heard of him. Stripped of his rank and his freedom, Dreyfus
was sentenced to life on the penal colony of Devil’s Island.
The case raised all sorts of questions about the place of Jews in French
society. It also profoundly influenced the journalist Theodor Herzl, who
was covering the trial, in his move toward Zionism.16 Supporters of Dreyfus
claimed (rightly, as it turned out) that he was a scapegoat. Opponents
claimed the case showed Jews could not be trusted as Frenchmen because
their loyalties lay elsewhere. It took 12 years for Dreyfus to clear his name.
And to do it, he had to take on the combined forces of the French military,
the Catholic Church, and large sections of public opinion. Decades later,
in the 1930s, anti-Semitism still lurked not too far beneath the surface of
the French establishment. When Léon Blum became prime minister in
1936, he was openly taunted in the press for being Jewish.17
Against the backdrop of this persecution, there was also progress.
Jews flourished in the liberal atmosphere and religious tolerance of
the Netherlands. Prussia’s Jews had enjoyed citizenship since 1812.
Postunification, German Jews were the most assimilated Jewish commu-
nity on the continent. And in the United Kingdom, Benjamin Disraeli,
a baptized Jew who never forgot his Sephardi origins, held the highest
office in the land not once but twice. Disraeli was Conservative prime
minister in 1868 and, again, from 1874 to 1880.
But in spite of this progress, persecution persisted. And in spite of all
the horrors the Jews had endured in the past—whether at the hands of
the Caesars or the tsars, the Crusaders or the inquisitors, the mobs or
the militias—worse was to come. Nothing could have prepared Europe’s
Jewish community for the horror they would face in the twentieth cen-
tury at the hands of one of the most civilized countries in the world.
Award-winning author Aharon Appelfeld was eight years old when he

was sent to a concentration camp by the Nazis.
He escaped and spent three years hiding in the Ukrainian country-
side before joining the Russian army at the age of 11. He later became
an Israeli. In his novel The Age of Wonders he tells the story of Bruno,
a young Jewish boy growing up in 1930s’ Austria, as the world around

him slowly but systematically collapses. One of the reasons the story is so
compelling is that the reader knows only too well the awful fate awaiting
Bruno and his family and desperately wants them to avoid it. Part One of
The Age of Wonders ends with the ominous words, “By the next day we
were on the cattle train hurtling south.”18
Then Appelfeld shows his genius and his mastery of the craft of sto-
rytelling. On the horrors of the Holocaust, he is silent. After Part One
ends, you turn the page and Part Two begins: “At the end of April Bruno
returned to the town of his birth.”19 It is spring, the season of rebirth
and renewal, many years later “when everything was over” and Bruno has
come back alive.20 He, like the Jewish people, has faced annihilation and
he has survived.
Appelfeld’s silence on the Shoah, as it is called in Hebrew, can be read
on many levels. A searing indictment on events and those who made them
happen. An echo of the silence of those who could have stopped them but
did not. A refusal to trivialize human suffering by turning it into literary
voyeurism. Or it may be that Aharon Appelfeld simply did not think the
words existed to describe what he went through.
Whatever Appelfeld’s motivation, The Age of Wonders is one of the
most powerful, poignant, and personal accounts of the Holocaust. And
it is precisely because of that carefully calibrated silence that sits right at
the heart of the book.
Appelfeld recognized that the nature of the Holocaust robs words of
their power. Nothing on this scale had happened before. The nearest
analogy was the massacre of the Armenians in 1915–6 by the Ottomans
when, according to Armenian accounts, one-and-a-half million people
were killed. Four times as many Jews were killed in the Nazi extermi-
nation camps. To put the scale of these fatalities in context: throughout
2014, events were held across Europe to commemorate the beginning
of the First World War. The death toll from the trenches was stagger-
ing, and in the coverage of the commemorations, you could see that
the enormity of these losses had lost none of its power to shock. The
Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red installation at the Tower of London
where each poppy marked a British loss became a must-see destina-
tion—the modern equivalent of a pilgrimage site. The muted, yet emo-
tional, nature of the public’s response suggested the war was a wound
that had not yet healed. In the First World War, the British lost nearly
three-quarters of a million men. The combined total of Allied fatalities
was five million, one hundred thousand men. In the Holocaust, the
Jews lost six million people: nearly one million more people than the
combined Allied fatalities in the First World War. Three-quarters of a
million more people than the entire population of a country the size
of Scotland. All of whom were civilians. All of whom were unarmed.
All of whom were deliberately targeted for death. A quarter of whom
were children.
How did it happen? Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany on
January 30, 1933. He had not won the position outright—his National
Socialist Party had no overall majority—but his party enjoyed massive
popular support. Since 1920, it had consistently won more votes than any
other party.21 The doors to power were opened for Hitler by Germany’s
aristocratic old guard who thought he could control the unsettled German
masses and they could control him. Had any of them labored through the
turgid, rambling prose of Mein Kampf, published nearly a decade earlier,
they would have known exactly what kind of character they were deal-
ing with. The day after becoming chancellor, Hitler dissolved parliament.
Less than two months later, on March 21, 1933, he opened the Dachau
concentration camp to “retrain” opponents.
As it began, so it continued. Day by day, the chip-chip-chipping away
of individual rights and liberties in the name of the collective greater
good, the German Fatherland, gathered pace. As Robert Gellately demon-
strates in his ground-breaking book Backing Hitler: Consent and Coercion
in Nazi Germany, not only was this creeping takeover of the state not a
secret but sizeable parts of the population actively supported it.22 Many
Germans went along with Hitler’s dictatorship because, as part of the col-
lective, they were safe. They were not on the margins of society. They were
not outsiders. So they were not targets.
For German Jews, it was a different story. For them, it began with a
boycott and ended with the Final Solution. The initial reaction to the dis-
crimination was disbelief. German Jews were patriotic and proud of their
country and many had fought at the front in the First World War.23 The
officer who recommended Hitler for the Iron Cross, First Class, which
Hitler was so proud of that he wore it every day for the rest of his life, was
Jewish: Captain Hugo Guttman. (Captain Guttman left for Canada after
Hitler came to power.)24
On Saturday, April 1, 1933, only days after Dachau was opened, the
first boycott of Jewish businesses took place. A Jewish war veteran and
store-owner named Edwin Landau decided to stage a personal show of
defiance. He put on his war medals, kept his store open, and visited other
Jewish businesses in the local area as a public gesture of solidarity with
their owners. But even though Landau received support from his regular
customers, he was farsighted enough to read events for what they were.
He was under no illusions about what would happen next. As a Jew, he
knew he had no future in Hitler’s Fatherland.25
Less than a week later, on April 7, Hitler brought in the Civil Service
Law, which banned Jewish professors from teaching in German universi-
ties. From the boycott in April to the burning of books on Kristallnacht
in November, the first year of Hitler’s chancellorship saw Jews pushed to
the margins of society. Blamed for everything from Germany’s defeat in
the First World War, to Marxism, to the parlous state of German finances,
to the age-old crime of killing Christ, German Jews witnessed the rolling
back of rights that had taken centuries to win. And it all happened within
a matter of months.
The Nuremberg Laws of 1935 sealed the process by depriving German
Jews of their citizenship. From then on, Germany’s Jews effectively lost
control of their own lives. If you were a Jew, everything from where you
worked and lived, to who you could marry, to whether you could own a
business or a pet, even the name you called yourself and the food you ate
(ginger and chocolate, for unspecified reasons, were among many food-
stuffs forbidden to Jews)—every aspect of your life was now dictated by
the state.
From delegitimization, it was a short step to dehumanization. And to
the cattle train hurtling south.
One of the most startling aspects of the Holocaust is how much was
known about what was going on and how little was done to stop it.
The smoke from Auschwitz could be seen as far away as the Russian
front. Thanks to intelligence from escaped prisoners, its exact location
was known by the Allies early in 1944. Much earlier than that, Europe’s
Jewish communities were inexplicably disappearing from public view,
sometimes with the connivance of governments and local people. Latent
anti-Semitism often helped the German forces carry out their work.
Vichy France actively collaborated with the Nazi policy of deporting
Jews.26 Irène Némirovsky’s bestselling novel, Suite Française (which
became a major motion picture in 2015 starring Kristen Scott Thomas),
was written against the backdrop of the German occupation of France but
not published until nearly seven decades later. It shows how, even post-
Dreyfus, there was still a sense in some quarters in France that Jews were
not quite part of the patrie. They were still outsiders. In the novel, one of
the French characters has the same emotional response to anti-Semitism
as she does to patriotism.27 Némirovsky herself would feel the full force
of Nazi anti-Semitism. She was killed in Auschwitz in August 1942 just a
month after being arrested by French police and deported. The author’s
young daughters, Denise and Elisabeth, spent the rest of the war in hid-
ing, on the run from the French police who would have sent them to the
same fate as their mother.
During this time, there were countless individual acts of heroism: the
ones we know about, such as Sir Nicholas Winton’s Kindertransport and
Oskar Schindler’s list, and ones we do not. But at a national level, with the
exception of Denmark whose government refused to hand over Danish
Jews to the occupying German army, there was not a great deal done
to help Europe’s Jewish community. The train lines were not bombed.
Borders were not opened. Refugees were not welcomed. Conferences were
convened to discuss the crisis—at Lake Evian in 1938 and in Bermuda in
1943—and still nothing was done. Although the fate of Europe’s Jews is
often cited as a reason justifying Allied involvement in the Second World
War, that was not the case at the time. For the Allies, stretched to break-
ing point and battling on many fronts, saving Europe’s Jews was not the
priority. A rescue was launched late in the day for Hungary’s Jews when
the combined efforts of the Red Cross, the papacy, and Portugal, Spain,
Sweden, and Switzerland (all neutral countries) saved tens of thousands
from certain death in 1944. But for the rest of Europe’s Jews, with nowhere
to go and no one to save them, there was no such escape.
Watching these events unfold with increasing horror and desperation
was the Jewish community in Palestine. According to them, there was
somewhere for Europe’s Jews to go: to Zion, their historical homeland,
now the province of Palestine under British rule since 1917.
After the exile from Jerusalem in 70, Jews had continued to live in the
renamed province of Palestine in the Roman era, mostly in the north and
along the Mediterranean coast. They were still there after the Muslim
takeover in the 630s. If anything, Islamic rule made their lives easier as
they enjoyed state protection as People of the Book.
The numbers of Jewish migrants to Palestine increased dramatically
during the 1880s, partly as a result of the pogroms in Russia and partly
as a result of the growing idea of Jewish nationalism or Zionism. In
1882—the year of some of the worst pogroms in Russia—a bookish young
Lithuanian named Eliezer Perlmann arrived in Palestine, promptly
declared his old self dead, renamed himself Ben Yehuda, and set about
resurrecting the Hebrew language. Almost single-handedly, Ben Yehuda
gave the Jewish migrants what a new nation cannot function without: a
common language. With a shared language, the Jewish migrants were
no longer a random group of individuals speaking a Babel of languages.
They were slowly becoming a community, a nation in waiting.28 In recog-
nition of his efforts to achieve this, one of the main streets in downtown
Jerusalem now bears Ben Yehuda’s name.
In the Balfour Declaration of 1917, Britain recognized the legitimacy

of this community to a homeland in Palestine. Even though the British
declaration did so in terms that were deliberately ambiguous, thousands
of Jews who supported the idea of a homeland in Biblical Zion (as well
as many who did not) took advantage of it and migrated to Palestine.
The pace of this migration increased rapidly in the 1930s for obvious rea-
sons. Between 1932 and 1938, nearly 200,000 Jews migrated to Palestine,
many of them from Germany. This was more than the number of arriv-
als (190,000) during the 50 years from 1881 to 1931.29 The fact that more
migrants arrived in Palestine during the 1930s as during the previous
50 years shows how desperate Jews were to escape Europe.
Another 140,000 arrived in Palestine between 1938 and 1948. 30 Much
of this migration was illegal as the British imposed tighter restrictions
after the Arab Uprising of 1936–9. During the Uprising, Palestinian pro-
tests over the rising number of Jewish migrants put increasing pressure
on British forces. Palestinians feared Jewish migration was creating facts
on the ground that would change the character of their land and tip the
population balance against them. Britain’s inability to come up with a
strategy that addressed the concerns of both parties revealed the contra-
dictions inherent in the Balfour Declaration from the beginning.
For Jews, the timing of Britain’s decision to curb migration to Palestine
could not have been worse. At the very time Hitler was accelerating the
systematic persecution of Jews toward the Final Solution, Britain closed
their last remaining escape route. It was seen as a betrayal of the worst
kind, condemning untold numbers to death, and it shaped the attitudes
of many Zionists toward Britain for years to come.
Even when the war ended, the question of where Europe’s Jews should
go remained unanswered. After everything that had happened, many sur-
vivors had no wish to return to their former homes. In the upheaval and
chaos after the war, many had no homes to return to. About a quarter of a
million survivors of the Nazi death camps now found themselves in camps
again, this time for Displaced Persons. Again, the Jewish community in
Palestine called for them to be allowed to come and join them. Again,
Britain refused citing the need not to alter the population balance between
Palestine’s Jewish community (the Yishuv in Hebrew) and the Arabs.
The British, however, had not taken into account how much the Jewish
community had changed. The experience of the Holocaust had steeled
something inside them. Even those who had not experienced it directly,
for example in the United States, changed. Too many had lost too much.
Too many had glaring gaps in their family trees. The effect of that change
was immediate. Never again would Jews wait for other people to rescue
them. From now on, they would rescue themselves.31
In the 1940s, militant Zionists took matters into their own hands and
waged a campaign against the British Mandatory authorities in Palestine.
The British saw the campaign as terrorism. These Zionists saw it as a
liberation struggle. Two future prime ministers of Israel, Menachem
Begin and Yitzhak Shamir, were involved in the campaign at the high-
est level: Begin in the Irgun and Shamir in the Stern Gang. Their groups
were ruthless but effective. The Stern Gang assassinated British Colonial
Secretary, Lord Moyne, in Cairo in November 1944. The Irgun blew up
Jerusalem’s iconic King David Hotel, home to the British administration,
killing 91 people on July 22, 1946. The bombers got past the rigid British
security by hiding the explosives in milk churns and placing them in the
nightclub in the hotel’s basement. The dead included Jews as well as Arabs
and British.
For the men and women of the Irgun and the Stern Gang, the use of
violence was justified as a means to a political end. They did not see them-
selves as terrorists. They saw themselves as fighting for their freedom
against an army of occupation—the same argument that years later Izz
al-Din al-Qassam, the armed wing of the Islamic Resistance Movement
Hamas, would use against Israel.
The violence of the Irgun and the Stern Gang had the desired effect.
Faced with a problem that defied solution and increasingly fed up with
being caught in the crossfire, war-weary Britain gave up and handed the
question of Palestine over to the newly formed United Nations. Britain
then prepared to leave.
The UN established a Special Commission to come up with a solution.
Made up of 11 members, the Commission recommended by a majority
of four that Palestine should be split in two with Jerusalem as an inter-
national city. The seven states in favor of the two-state solution were
Canada, Czechoslovakia, Guatemala, the Netherlands, Peru, Sweden, and
Uruguay. India, Iran, and Yugoslavia favored a federal state. Australia
abstained. The UN General Assembly accepted the majority decision
and adopted it as a resolution on November 29, 1947.32 Jews were jubilant.
Their right to their own state had received international recognition. For
them, there was no turning back.
In a museum in Tel Aviv on the night before the British Mandate was
due to end, David Ben-Gurion declared the creation of the State of Israel.
It was May 14, 1948. Within minutes, the world’s two superpowers, the
United States and the Soviet Union, recognized the new Israeli nation.
For Jews, it was a moment to savor.
They did not have long to enjoy it. Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, Transjordan,
and Iraq immediately declared war on the fledgling state. But the Jews,
reborn as Israelis, were ready. They knew what was at stake. They knew
they were fighting for more than their state. They were fighting for their
survival. For them, the country they ultimately won in the war against
the Arabs in 1948—and have had to defend in the many wars since—
was more than a state. It was a sanctuary. Under the Law of Return, Jews
everywhere have a right to residence in Israel. For them, this was the ulti-
mate protection from persecution and the first and last line of defense:
the ability to defend yourself.
The citizens of the new state knew only too well that had Israel existed
ten years earlier, many of the lives lost in the death camps of Europe would
have been saved. Take Edwin Landau as an example. The German war
veteran and store-owner who staged his show of defiance on the day of the
boycott in April 1933 left soon afterward for Palestine. He was lucky. He
had the resources to get out. Had he stayed in Germany, he would almost
certainly have been killed. Millions of others were not so fortunate.
Critics of Israel often accuse the country’s politicians of using the
Holocaust to justify Israel’s actions against the Palestinians, as if the expe-
rience of suffering on such a massive scale gives Israel a blank cheque to
do what it wants; as if that suffering places the country above interna-
tional law and can be used to guilt the Western world into silence. For
many politicians—and especially those responsible for the safety of Israel’s
citizens—the effects of the Holocaust go much, much deeper. Events in
Europe in the 1930s and 1940s marked the collective Israeli psyche on the
most profound level. The memory of millions of men, women, and children
being systemically dehumanized until they were labeled Untermenschen
(sub-human) and then sent to their deaths in the gas chambers while the
rest of the world stood by has taught the State of Israel the true value of
independence. It is not that Israeli politicians and the Israeli people do not
care what the rest of the world thinks. It is that history has taught them
they cannot afford to care too much. They have other priorities. First and
foremost of which is the protection of their fellow citizens. And if they
tend to react to any threat against their nation as if it is an existential one,
it is—again—because history has taught them to expect nothing else. The
Holocaust did not happen in a vacuum. Europe’s Jews endured centuries as
the perennial outsider, always reliant on the kindness of strangers for their
safety and their survival. At least one senior soldier in the Israeli army has
been known to hang a photograph of Auschwitz in his office as a reminder
of what happened to Jews when they did not have their own state.33
For Jews, the creation of the State of Israel only three years after the
near-annihilation of their people was nothing short of miraculous. That
victory was underlined by another one 19 years later. In June 1967, Israel
faced invasion on three fronts: from Syria in the north, Jordan in the east,
and Egypt in the south.
For Israel, the Six-Day War was an all-or-nothing battle for survival.
The threat to the nation’s existence was so severe that the man in charge
of the military, Chief of Staff (and future prime minister) General
Yitzhak Rabin, worked himself to the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Just days before the war started, Rabin was so overwrought that he had
to be sedated. 34
One of the most iconic images of the war is of Israeli paratroopers
praying at the Western Wall on the morning of June 7. For centuries, Jews
had kept the dream of Jerusalem alive by ending the Passover dinner with
the words “Next Year in Jerusalem.” Now they had done it. For them,
it was an epic tale of triumph over adversity, a fairy tale come true. But
every fairy tale has a dark forest. And this one is no exception.
Jews were not alone in venerating Jerusalem. Christians did too. For
them, it was the city of Christ’s death and resurrection. Muslims also
venerated this Holy City. For them, it was their Noble Sanctuary. And
just as Jews never gave up the dream of return to their sacred city, neither
would they.
14
Jerusalem: The Noble

Sanctuary
The name Abd al-Malik is barely known in the West.

Literally, it means Slave of the King, the king in this case being God.
Islam recognizes no other. Abd al-Malik was caliph from 685 to 705. He
belonged to Islam’s first ruling family, the Umayyad dynasty, who ruled
the Arab world for the best part of a century.1 A man of great energy, Abd
al-Malik spent his first decade in power fighting (and winning) a civil war.
He spent the next decade building an empire. It was Abd al-Malik who
took the disparate provinces of the Arab conquests and united them into
a cohesive, cultural unit. Nowadays, when we talk of the “Arab world,” it
was Abd al-Malik who created it. To do it, he made Arabic the language
of the imperial administration and introduced a single currency. These
changes might not sound revolutionary, but their long-term effect was.
They radically altered the way people lived their lives. From this point
on, everyone in the caliphate spoke the same language and used the same
money. This was political and economic integration on a grand scale.
As well as winning wars and building empires, Abd al-Malik also
found the time to enjoy a hectic private life. Married at least six times
(he might have married three more times, but the sources cannot agree),
he had nine legitimate sons—four of whom succeeded him as caliph—
and three daughters. He had another seven sons by his harem of slave
girls.2 Given the dangerous domestic politics of the harem, Abd al-Malik
did well to avoid the fate of his father, the caliph Marwan (r. 684–5). He
was smothered to death by a pillow-wielding wife whose son Marwan had
ousted from the succession in favor of Abd al-Malik.3
The reason history remembers Abd al-Malik is not his administrative
reforms or his busy private life; it is because of what he did in Jerusalem.
Even if you have never heard of him, you will know his legacy. You see
it every time you see a news report from the Old City of Jerusalem. Abd
al-Malik built one of the most iconic buildings in the world: the Dome of
the Rock. And in doing so, he turned Constantine’s City of the Cross into
Islam’s City of the Crescent. Even now, the Dome of the Rock remains so
central to the city’s Islamic identity that a massive photograph of it forms
the backdrop to Hamas press conferences, no matter where in the world
those press conferences are held.
The Dome’s origins are shrouded in speculation and mystery. Built
against the backdrop of war, the reasons for its construction were for a
long time obscured by the fog of that war. Abd al-Malik commissioned it
while he was fighting a man named Abdullah ibn al-Zubayr.4 Abdullah
ibn al-Zubayr lived in Medina and came from a family with impeccable
Islamic credentials. His parents were early converts to Islam who stood
by the Prophet Muhammad when others (like Abd al-Malik’s Umayyad
family) had scorned him. He was fighting to take power away from the
Umayyad monarchy in Greater Syria and bring it back to the people in the
Islamic heartlands of the Holy Cities.
For much of the war, Abdullah ibn al-Zubayr controlled Mecca and
Medina, which meant he also controlled the pilgrimage. This gave him
a powerful propaganda weapon and it was one he wielded to great effect.
During prayers in Mecca, he made pilgrims from Abd al-Malik’s Syrian
powerbase give him the oath of allegiance as caliph. When Abd al-Malik
heard about this, he was furious and hit back by banning his Syrian sup-
porters from going near Mecca. In response, Abd al-Malik’s Syrian sup-
porters raised quite a “hue and cry.” 5 Performing the pilgrimage is the fifth
and final pillar of Islam. An obligatory religious rite, it is a duty to God
that must be carried out at least once in a believer’s lifetime. For Muslims,
the pilgrimage is the spiritual highpoint of their lives. Their salvation is at
stake. If the Syrian pilgrims could not go to Mecca, where could they go?
The timing of the Dome’s construction in the late 680s and early 690s
(it was finished in 692) along with the suggestion by an early and usually
reliable source that the Syrian pilgrims needed somewhere else to go led
some scholars to speculate that the Dome was built as an alternative to the
Kabah in Mecca.6 But given the unique importance of Mecca for Muslims,
that seems unlikely. It also ignores the ferocious, and ultimately success-
ful, efforts Abd al-Malik made to reclaim Mecca. As a Muslim, he knew
nowhere could replace Mecca. But in the short term, while the war against
Abdullah ibn al-Zubayr raged on, Syrian pilgrims could go to Jerusalem
not as an alternative to Mecca but as a temporary substitute. Known as
al-Quds (the Holy) in Arabic, Jerusalem is one of the most sacred cities for
Muslims. Jerusalem, like Mecca, is a Haram al-Sharif, a Noble Sanctuary.
JERUSALEM: THE NOBLE SANCTUARY 131
Jerusalem’s sanctity for Muslims dates from the beginning of the

Prophet Muhammad’s mission, and the city occupies a unique place in
the development of Islamic ritual. It was, in fact, Islam’s first Holy City.
When Muslims were first commanded to pray to their God, it was to
Jerusalem they turned. It was not until 623, the year after the Prophet
escaped Mecca for the safety of Medina and more than a decade after
he had received his first revelation in 610, that the qibla, the direction of
prayer, was changed to Mecca.7
Jerusalem’s position at the heart of Islam was integral to Muhammad’s
mission because of the critical role the city played in the prophetic tradi-
tions that preceded him. Muhammad never claimed to be proclaiming a
“new” religion. He saw himself as the restorer of an old one: the belief in
One God that was first revealed to Abraham. 8
According to Islam, that message needed to be restored because the
Jews and the Christians, who received it previously, had mishandled
it. The Jews made the mistake of breaking their covenant with God by
worshiping the calf.9 In disobeying God, they were guilty of ingratitude,
and in seeing themselves as God’s Chosen People, they denied the rest
of humanity access to God’s message and were, therefore, guilty of arro-
gance.10 The Christians, for their part, made the mistake of attributing
partners to God. In seeing the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit as
one and the same, the Christians were little better than pagans and were
guilty of shirk (idolatry).11
Muslims believe that in 610, God gave His final message to man-
kind via Muhammad and, in doing so, made Muhammad the “Seal of
the Prophets.” There would be none after him. This was humanity’s last
chance to get it right. The belief that Muhammad was the “Seal” pro-
foundly shaped how Islam viewed the two monotheistic religions that
came before it. It also shaped how Islam viewed the city—Jerusalem—
holy to both religions.
Because Islam was the last in the line of revelations from the Almighty,
Muhammad’s message acknowledged what had come before. Without
Judaism and Christianity, there would be no Islam. The One God of the
Jews and the Christians was the One God of the Muslims. The prophets
of the Jews and the Christians were the prophets of the Muslims.12 The
Holy City of the Jews and Christians in Jerusalem was also the Holy City
of the Muslims.
That sense of continuity meant Muslims were duty-bound to respect
the religions and the religious geography that came before Islam, even
if, according to Islamic tradition, those religions had strayed from the
straight path and garbled the message God gave them. In the Islamic
world, Jews and Christians were, therefore, allotted special status as
People of the Book, that is, people with their own scripture. This, in
turn, led Islam to adopt a completely different attitude to Judaism and
Christianity than Christianity did to either Judaism or Islam. Not for
Islam was the scripturally sanctioned persecution of Jews as Christ-
killers. Islam did not consider Jesus to be Christ. In Islam, Jesus is a
prophet and a man to be respected like all other prophets of God, but he
is not God Himself. Because of this, in the Arab Islamic East, there was
space in society for the Jewish community in a way that was not always
the case in the European Christian West. While Jews in the East were
never equal to Muslims and the Quran often refers to them with deri-
sion or contempt for mishandling the message God gave them, they were
largely left alone to live their own lives.13 Frequently, they were patron-
ized. Less frequently they were persecuted. The Holocaust could not have
happened in the medieval Islamic world.
But that does not mean everything between the two religions was
uncomplicated. Some of the Quranic statements on interfaith relations
are not always easy to understand. In places, the Quran veers between a
positive attitude of the Jews and a negative one—sometimes in the same
verse.14 This, for example, is verse thirteen from sura (chapter) five of the
Quran. Here, God tells Muhammad how the Children of Israel suffered
the consequences for failing to heed His word:
Because of their breaking their covenant,

We cursed them and made their hearts hard.
They changed words from their places; and
they have forgotten a part of that by which they were reminded.
You will continue to observe treachery from them
—except for a few of them.
Yet immediately after this, the verse changes tone completely: “But par-
don them and forgive. God loves those who do good.” 15 Then, later in the
same chapter (verse 51), the tone changes again, and Muslims are warned
not to take Jews or Christians as friends.
Prior to the present day, one of the most turbulent periods in Jewish-
Muslim relations was in the early days of Islam. There was a sizeable
Jewish community in Arabia, especially in the city of Yathrib (later
Madina al-Nabi, the City of the Prophet, or Medina for short), and
Muhammad hoped the Jews, as the original recipients of God’s message,
would recognize his revelation. He was disappointed when they did not.
Relations between Muslims and Jews broke down after Muhammad’s
flight, or hijra, to Medina in 622. The reasons for this had nothing to do
with religion and everything to do with politics.
In Medina, Muhammad and the Muslims were still at risk from revenge
attacks by the authorities in Mecca. Because of that, before Muhammad
arrived in Medina, an agreement had been reached with the host commu-
nity, including the Jewish tribes of Nadir, Qaynuqa, and Qurayzah, over
security in the event of an attack from Mecca. The Treaty of Hudaybiyah
was a mutual defense pact in which an attack on anyone was seen as an
attack on everyone and each community guaranteed the safety of the
other communities.
What happened in reality was different. The Jewish tribes had long-
standing connections with Mecca and they did not see Muhammad’s bat-
tles as theirs. In short, they became “a security risk.”16 They broke the terms
of the treaty, turned against Muhammad, and colluded with his Meccan
opponents. Faced with this threat, Muhammad acted to protect his people.
The Nadir and Qaynuqa tribes were given the choice of conversion or exile.
They chose exile. The fate of the Qurayzah tribe was much more severe:
their men were killed and their women and children sold into slavery.
The slaughter and slavery of this tribe is often cited nowadays, along
with some of the seemingly mixed messages in the Quran, as proof of
Muhammad’s anti-Jewish tendencies and Islam’s inherent hostility to
Judaism. But it was not Muhammad who condemned the Jews to this fate.
When they surrendered, he asked them to appoint an arbitrator to decide
their punishment, and it was this man, Sad ibn Muadh, who decreed what
should happen to them, not the Prophet.17
The incident was not the start of a campaign against Jews.18 Nor did it
have any long-term impact on relations between Jews and Muslims in the
Islamic world. As eminent historian Bernard Lewis explains in The Jews
of Islam, his study of Jewish-Muslim relations: “There is little sign (in
Islam) of any deep-rooted emotional hostility directed against Jews—or
for that matter any other group such as the anti-Semitism of the Christian
world.”19 An example of Islam’s attitude to Jews is what happened when
the Muslim armies took over Palestine in the 630s: the Jews, as People
of the Book, were granted greater rights than they had ever enjoyed
under the Romans and Byzantines.20
As for Islam’s relationship with Christianity, it was similar to Islam’s
relationship with Judaism: a mixture of disdain and indifference but lit-
tle or no persecution. In the Islamic East, Christians were often subject
to mockery for confusing Jesus with God. But Christians did not find
themselves subject to the religiously sanctioned hostility that Christianity
inflicted on the religion that preceded it. Many Christians in Palestine
were not even sorry to see the Byzantines go. At the time of the Muslim
conquest, Eastern Christianity was divided by reruns of the Arian con-
troversy on the nature (human, divine, or both) of Jesus. Some of these
groups took the opposite view from Constantinople and were not well
treated by the Byzantine authorities. As a result, while some Eastern
Christians did not exactly welcome the Muslim armies, they did not
exactly oppose them either.
But if Islam tolerated the religious messages that preceded it,
Christianity, particularly Western Christianity, was not so accommodat-
ing of the religion that came after it. At times, its relationship with Islam
has been only marginally less fraught than its relationship with Judaism.
From the birth of Islam until relatively recently, Christianity has viewed
Islam with outright suspicion, if not hostility. (Many would say it still
does.) That suspicion has often found expression in vitriolic attacks
on the Prophet Muhammad. In the medieval era, Christianity viewed
Muhammad as nothing less than the Anti-Christ because his teaching
reduced their Christ to a mere prophet.
Not surprisingly, then, it was in Jerusalem, the city of the Jews and of
Jesus (and, at one stage, of Jupiter too), that Abd al-Malik chose to seal
Islam’s position as the last of God’s revelations and to celebrate the faith’s
success in becoming a world power. The Dome of the Rock was delib-
erately designed to dominate the city’s landscape and to eclipse every-
thing around it. Nothing about its location or decoration was accidental.
Everything about this building was intended to make a statement about
power and victory: the power of God and the victory of the Muslim
armies over their Byzantine (i.e., Christian) rivals. Built on the site of
Solomon’s Temple, the Dome’s location lets everyone know Islam has
overtaken Judaism. Built in the style of a Byzantine church but covered
in verses from the Quran referring to God’s unity (tawhid ) rather than
the Christian trinity, its decoration is a public statement that Islam has
overtaken Christianity too.
The site itself is also hugely significant within the Muslim tradition.
The rock is where Muhammad is said to have ascended into heaven and
met God during his famous Night Journey. Awakened one night by the
angel Gabriel, Muhammad was taken from Mecca on a miraculous jour-
ney to Jerusalem on a winged horse with a human face called Buraq. In
Jerusalem, Muhammad and Gabriel were greeted by previous prophets
including Abraham and Moses. Jesus was also present. Muhammad then
traveled up through the seven levels of heaven to meet God. (It was during
this meeting that God commanded Muhammad to have Muslims to pray
50 times a day. On the advice of Moses who was concerned that praying
50 times a day might be too much for mere mortals, Muhammad man-
aged to get it down to five.)
With its golden dome reflecting the sun and its deep-sea blue tiles
shimmering in the light, the Dome is a stunning representation of heaven
on earth. It draws your eyes like a magnet. In an era long before mass
media, this was visual propaganda of the first order. And it was all the
more effective because it is permanent. Caliphs and Crusaders could
come and go. Dynasties could rise and fall. Empires could wax and wane.
But with the Dome of the Rock sitting right in the center of this sacred
city, Abd al-Malik’s legacy is a declaration that Jerusalem, or at least this
part of it, belongs to Islam.
Dynasties did indeed rise and fall. But Jerusalem remained at the heart
of Islam.
Under Islamic rule, the city was part of the province of Palestine,
which was a sub-province of Greater Syria. During the Umayyad era,
Greater Syria was the center of the caliphate, and Palestine was of such
strategic importance to the ruling family that it was often governed by no
less a figure than the heir apparent. The importance of the province was
due in no small measure to the sanctity of Jerusalem. The Umayyads were
aware of the city’s symbolism and did not hesitate to use it to sacralize
their power. It was in Jerusalem that the Umayyad era officially began.
The founder of the dynasty, Muawiya (r. 661–80), received the oath of
allegiance as caliph there.21
As time passed, increasing numbers of local people embraced the reli-
gion of the conquerors. Islam was no longer the faith of the ruling elite
and their armies. It became the faith of the masses. Jerusalem then went
through one of its periodic reinventions and became a Muslim city. The
Jewish and Christian residents who did not convert were left alone to
worship and live in their own way. As long as they paid their poll tax (the
jizya) and did not build their synagogues and churches higher than the
mosques, they were protected by the state.
When the Umayyads fell from power in 750 and were all but wiped out
in the meal-cum-massacre at Jaffa that same year, the new ruling fam-
ily, the Abbasids, showed just as much reverence toward the Holy City
as their predecessors had done. Even though the center of power shifted
to Iraq, Jerusalem remained an integral part of the Islamic empire and
the new caliphs were keen to show how much the city meant to them.
Al-Mansur (r. 754–75) performed the pilgrimage to Mecca in 758, then
went to Medina and onto Jerusalem. This was quite an arduous journey
in the heat of early summer, but the caliph understood the value of being
seen in all three of Islam’s Holy Cities. 22 His son, the caliph al-Mahdi
(r. 775–85), also made the journey to Jerusalem and took a significant
entourage with him.23
The caliph al-Mamun (r. 813–33) went even further. Pomp and patron-
age were not enough for him. His plan was much grander. He tried to
rewrite history. Literally. He, like Abd al-Malik, had fought and won a civil
war. His, though, was against his brother, and the double shadow of regi-
cide-fratricide hung over his rule. Such was the importance of the Dome
of the Rock in Islam that al-Mamun decided to use it to legitimize his rule.
He sponsored a renovation program and had his name inscribed on the
foundation stone to make it look as if he, rather than Abd al-Malik, had
commissioned its construction. He might have got away with it if the stone
mason had not forgotten to change the date of the Dome’s construction.24
Al-Mamun was one of the last Abbasid caliphs to wield absolute
authority. Officially, the family held power until 1258, but from the
ninth century onward, they functioned more as figureheads than as
Commanders of the Faithful. During this time, a strategic realign-
ment took place within the caliphate. The era of conquest was over. The
vast wealth of conquered countries no longer flowed into the caliph’s
exchequer and the imperial capital was no longer able to support itself
financially. So power shifted to the regions. This process gained more
momentum during the tenth century when successor states and com-
petitor caliphates became the norm.25
This decentralization of power would turn out to be disastrous for
Jerusalem. With a caliph in Cordoba, another in Baghdad, and sultans
springing up across Syria, the House of Islam was a house divided. In the
summer of 1099, that division worked to the advantage of the Christian
armies of the Crusaders. As they laid siege to Jerusalem, no one came to
help the city’s beleaguered inhabitants. On July 15, 1099, after nearly five
hundred years of Islamic rule, the city fell to the Christians.
A bloodbath followed. For two days, the Christian Crusaders murdered
every Muslim they met. The few to whom mercy was granted were made
to bury the dead in unmarked graves and were then sold into slavery. The
city’s Jewish community sought refuge in their synagogue. But they were
no safer there than they would have been out on the streets. The invaders
blocked the exits, surrounded the building with flammable material, then
set fire to it. Few survived. Those lucky enough to escape did not survive
for long. They were killed by the soldiers waiting outside.26
Muslims were stunned by the loss of Jerusalem.27 Bitterly divided, it
took the Arab world nearly 50 years to coordinate a fight back. In the
meantime, the Crusaders were not idle. They held Jerusalem for nearly
a century and carved out principalities and kingdoms in cities along the
Mediterranean coast.
The First Crusade is a grim tale and its effects are still with us. For
people in the West today, it is a remote story and one that most of us do
not know about in any great detail. Yet it has soured relations between the
Christian world (i.e., the West) and the Muslim world in ways the mod-
ern West does not always appreciate or understand. Before the Crusades,
the Arab world was self-contained, self-confident, and self-sufficient.
The loss of Jerusalem was, therefore, a crushing blow to the community’s
collective self-esteem. It laid bare the caliphate’s internal political weak-
nesses for all to see and revealed that the Muslim community was not as
united as it had once been. Petty rivalries and political power plays were
the order of the day. Squabbling sultans were more concerned with their
own interests than with those of the community. Reclaiming Jerusalem
came way down their list of priorities.
Over the long term, what made the loss of Jerusalem so much worse for
Arabs was the manner of the Christian victory. The Crusader army acted
with the backing of the church and enjoyed the full blessing of the pope.
For such an army to behave with such brutality in the City of Christ was
a contradiction in terms for many of the city’s inhabitants.
In time, the massacre of the city’s population would be woven into
a solid anti-Western narrative. It was the Arab Muslim world’s first
experience of invasion from the West and, in time, the Crusades would
be recast as a lens through which to see all future invasions, particu-
larly the colonial invasions of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. If
you have ever wondered where everything started to go wrong between
the West and Islam, this is it. It was not immediately recognized at the
time—the great shifts of history rarely are; but for many in the Arab
world, this is the moment when the West showed its true colors. After
the Crusades, Jerusalem, a city already burdened with too much history,
became much more than a place of prayer. It became a fault line between
East and West.
On October 2, 1187, the armies of Saladin reclaimed Jerusalem. The
date was auspicious. In the Islamic calendar, it was the twenty-seventh
of Rajab: the anniversary of the Prophet’s Night Journey from Jerusalem
to heaven.28 As conqueror, Saladin was very different from the crusading
conquerors of 88 years earlier. Not for him was a massacre of the city’s
Christians. He allowed his defeated opponents to ransom themselves and
gave them safe passage out of the city. His actions were brought to the
attention of a wider audience in the Ridley Scott motion picture Kingdom
of Heaven. In one of the most memorable scenes, Balian the Christian
defender of Jerusalem (played by Orlando Bloom) asks Saladin why he
is showing mercy to Christians when none was shown to the Muslims.
Saladin’s response is simple: he is not those men.
Saladin’s victory brought Jerusalem under the control of his Ayyubid
family who also ruled Egypt and Greater Syria, and Jerusalem was,
once again, within the House of Islam. But that house remained bitterly
divided. And those divisions again threatened Jerusalem.
In 1229, Ayyubid Sultan al-Kamil (Saladin’s nephew) did something
that seems almost unbelievable given his uncle’s efforts to win back
Jerusalem. Al-Kamil handed the city over to the Crusaders without an
arrow being fired. He made a secret treaty with Frederick II giving him
control of the city in return for Frederick’s military support against al-
Kamil’s (Muslim) enemies. It was not until 1244—when al-Kamil was
long gone—that one of his successors reclaimed the city.29
From then on, ruling families came and went, but Jerusalem remained
a Muslim city. The Ayyubids held power until 1250 when they were ousted
by a corps of slave soldiers known as Mamluks, from the Arabic word for
“owned.” This was Egypt’s first encounter with rule by the military. It
lasted until 1516–7 when the Mamluks were defeated by the Ottomans
on the battlefield and Egypt and Greater Syria were added to Istanbul’s
growing list of conquests.
The Mamluks and the Ottomans understood Jerusalem’s importance
to Islam. The Mamluk sultan Qaitbay (r. 1468–96) built and endowed a
madrasa (school) in the enclosure where the Dome of the Rock stands.
Qaitbay also built extensively in Mecca and Medina and the work in
Jerusalem was part of a wider program of patronage in Islam’s Holy
Cities. It was appropriate too: this sultan’s honorific title was al-Ashraf
(the most noble), which comes from the word sharif, the noble in Noble
Sanctuary (Haram al-Sharif).30 The madrasa’s fountain still stands. The
Ottoman sultan Suleyman the Magnificent (r. 1520–66) was also busy in
Jerusalem. He, too, was linked to the city by his name, which is Arabic
for Solomon. He refurbished the Dome of the Rock using tiles from Iznik
(the Byzantine Nicaea of the Nicene Creed) and went as far as to have his
own tomb designed in the same style as the Dome.31
For any sultan, these projects were an unrivalled opportunity to proj-
ect power. More than that, they provided a platform to proclaim a ruler’s
Islamic credentials. Where better for a sultan to show himself as a good
Muslim than in one of Islam’s Holiest Cities?
At the beginning of the twentieth century, Ottoman rule in Palestine
had lasted nearly four centuries. The province itself and the Holy City at
the heart of it had been Islamic for nearly thirteen centuries. And then
everything changed.
On November 9, 1917, The Times of London published the Balfour

Declaration. In it, Britain declared its support for a Jewish homeland in
Palestine as long as any such homeland did not prejudice the rights of the
province’s non-Jewish communities in any way.32
The Balfour Declaration was an astonishing document for the British
to issue. At the time it was published, Palestine was part of the Ottoman
Empire. It was not Britain’s to dispose of, one way or another. There was
also the question of the document’s contents: the idea that substantial
migration to Palestine could take place without altering the popula-
tion balance between Arab and Jew. How the British thought that circle
could ever be squared was never explained. Building a Jewish homeland
in Palestine would, by its very definition, involve levels of immigration
that would alter the population balance. For Zionists and their support-
ers, that was the whole point. The reason for building their state was to go
and live in it. But for Arabs, Balfour was a disaster. It threatened the loss
of the land they had lived on for centuries.
The British, however, were not used to taking the views of Arabs into
consideration and Balfour is no exception. The declaration did not happen
in isolation. It fell within the framework of the Anglo-French carve-up of
the Middle East outlined in the Sykes-Picot Agreement. That, too, did
not happen in isolation but was part of the wider Anglo-French impe-
rial project for the region. Palestine was just another piece in this grand
imperial puzzle.
It cost the British nothing to support Jewish claims to a homeland
in Palestine. If anything, Britain hoped to benefit from it, believing it
would help the Allied effort by keeping Russia in the war. It is even pos-
sible the British did not anticipate substantial Jewish migration or any
potential population shift. That might sound unlikely, but so much of
British strategy at this time was based on what the British foreign policy
establishment wanted to see rather than what was actually going on, so it
is possible they miscalculated here too. As for the Arabs, the British did
not factor them into the equation in any meaningful way until the Arab
Uprising in the 1930s.
Balfour became a reality when Britain occupied Palestine in December
1917, and it soon affected population numbers. Fewer than 30,000 Jews
lived in Palestine before 1900. That figure rose to 61,000 by 1920, a tenth of
the province’s total population of 601,000. After Balfour, it kept on rising.
The 1931 British census has the Jewish community at 175,000 with the Arab
population at 880,000. Throughout the 1930s, the number of Jews arriving
in Palestine continued to rise. This was partly due to Balfour’s recognition
of the Jewish right to a homeland in Palestine, but it was mainly due to
events in Europe and the urgent need for Jews to flee German-occupied
lands. Nearly 150,000 Jewish immigrants arrived in Palestine between 1933
(the year Hitler took power) and 1935 (the year of the Nuremberg Laws).33
This was the moment Britain chose to act to preserve what remained
of the population balance between Arab and Jew. The violence of the
Arab Uprising of 1936–9, and the widespread social discontent behind
it, made the British authorities take steps to curb migration. For Jews,
facing annihilation in Europe, it could not have come at a worse time.
For Arabs, it was arguably too late. Palestine’s population had already
changed radically.
Caught between the competing demands of Arab and Jew, the British
set up a Royal Commission to work out what to do with Palestine. Known
as the Peel Commission after the lord who led it, it published a weighty
400-page report in July 1937 and recommended dividing the province
in two. It turned out to be another example of imperial short-sight. Yet
again, the British failed to grasp the reality that in this kind of all-or-
nothing struggle, giving something to one group (even if it is not every-
thing they want) is automatically taken as a loss by the other side. The
report was eventually shelved.
But nothing, it seemed, could stop Jewish migration and the popula-
tion of Palestine continued to change. On the eve of the creation of the
State of Israel, Jews made up nearly 40 percent of the overall population. 34
It did not help the Palestinian cause that a number of Arab landowners,
many of whom lived outside the province in what had once been Greater
Syria, were willing to sell land to the Jewish Agency.
There was no such lack of coordination on the Jewish side. They were
organized, effective, and, after the trauma of the Holocaust, they were
ready to do whatever needed to be done to secure their state. The Arabs,
by contrast, were pushed onto the defensive from the start. From their
point of view, the Zionists had everything to gain and they had every-
thing to lose. Attempts by the outside world to solve the problem through
a two-state solution were not, to Arab eyes, impartial because they gave
too much to the Jews and asked the Arabs to give up too much. Arabs
rejected the UN plan, not because they were unwilling to find a solution
but because they could not willingly agree to give up so much of their
own land.
When the crisis culminated in the war of 1948, the word Catastrophe
barely begins to cover events from the Palestinian point of view. It was
not just land they lost. Although that was hard enough to bear: a soci-
ety, a way of life, a culture—all these were lost too. Families were broken
up. The Catastrophe hit men particularly hard. Deprived of the means
to earn their living and provide for their families, a terrible sort of limbo
and inertia set in.35 People did not know how long the situation would
last and many kept their house keys as a sign of their confidence that
they would, one day, return home. To this day, people still keep them,
even though the houses no longer exist. The key remains a powerful sym-
bol for Palestinians, proof they have not given up. Palestinian politician
Dr. Mustafa Barghouti often wears one on his lapel.
After the 1948 war, the issue of refugees and their Right to Return
became one of the major fault lines in this conflict. Even the reasons why
Palestinians left in the first place are a source of contention and are treated
very differently in the two competing narratives. For years, the Israeli
narrative had the Palestinians packing up their bags and running—al-
most through choice. Palestinians, on the other hand, call what happened
to them ethnic cleansing and, as proof, cite events in the village of Deir
Yassin, outside Jerusalem, on April 10, 1948, when the forces of the Irgun,
the Stern, and the Haganah killed around 250 men, women, and chil-
dren. News of Deir Yassin spread and fear of a possible repeat prompted
Palestinian communities to flee before the advancing Zionist armies.
UN Resolution 194 affirms the Right of Return and Arab leaders refer
to it as the reason they have not given citizenship to the Palestinian refu-
gees scattered across the Middle East, believing that if they do, Israel will
consider the problem solved. For Israel, the Right of Return threatens the
very existence of the Jewish state. Over 20 percent of Israel’s population
is Arab, descended from people living there pre-1948. If every Palestinian
refugee (and his/her descendants) is allowed to return, the population
balance in Israel would be so radically altered that Jewish Israelis would
become a minority in the country—a situation not unlike the one Arabs
feared happening to them in the 1930s and 1940s.
For Palestinians, the Right of Return is an article of faith. It goes
directly to the legitimacy of their argument that Palestine is their home.
And they find it hard to understand why Western leaders side so openly
with Israel when, from the Palestinian point of view, Israel is the colonial
settler state that drove them from their homes in the first place. In this
regard, many Palestinians believe they are paying the price for Europe’s
treatment of the Jews during the 1930s and 1940s. The Holocaust was
an indictment not only of Germany but also of the culture that let it
happen. And from the Palestinian point of view, Western powers have
compensated for it ever since with their almost total support of Israel
and, once again, the cost of a war in Europe is compensated for in the
East. Israelis see it differently: for them, the right of their state to exist
is legitimate in and of itself. The Holocaust showed what could happen
in the absence of a Jewish state, but it is not, and never could be, the
country’s raison d’ être.
The gap between these two points of view is enormous and provides
yet another example of how far from resolution this conflict is. But per-
haps the biggest fault line in this conflict and, therefore, the one with
the least amount of room for compromise is the area sacred to Judaism,
Christianity, and Islam: Jerusalem.
Following Israel’s victory in the Six-Day War, the city was later annexed
to become the country’s capital. Although not universally recognized as
such—nearly all foreign embassies remain in Tel Aviv—for Israelis, there
is no question that Jerusalem is their capital. After so many centuries in
exile, during which Jerusalem served as the focus of the community’s
longing to return, it is highly unlikely any Israeli prime minister will ever
agree to cede control and share the city’s sovereignty.
But it is equally unlikely Palestinians will ever give up their longing
for their own state with Jerusalem as their capital. For Palestinians, the
loss of Jerusalem in 1967 compounded the losses of 1948. In one war, they
lost their land. In the other, they lost their liberty. They call the Six-Day
War the Naksa, or Setback. In the wake of that war, new resolutions were
passed at the UN—242 and 338—and “land-for-peace” became a much
used phrase. But in the short term, no land was given back and there has
been no peace.
What has happened in the decades since 1967 is a significant shift in
the nature of this conflict. The early Jewish pioneers were militant about
their Zionism, much less militant about their Judaism. Politics were dom-
inated by secular parties (the Labor Party in particular) and the conflict
with the Palestinians was seen as a battle over land between two compet-
ing national identities. After 1967, that changed. With the Israeli occupa-
tion of the West Bank came the dream of a Greater Israel, and a new wave
of religiously motivated immigrants arrived in the country on a mission
to resurrect the Zion of the Bible.
Given the multiparty nature of Israeli politics and the frequency of
coalition governments, smaller religious parties often wield dispropor-
tionate influence over the secular majority. For that reason, Israel is some-
times called a “minoritocracy.” And religion has changed Israeli politics
from within. If you believe you are doing God’s work, compromise—the
very essence of politics—becomes impossible and, in the minds of some, a
betrayal. Nowhere is this clearer than in the issue of land. Yitzhak Rabin,
Nobel Laureate, prime minister, and Chief of Staff in the Six-Day War,
was killed in November 1995 by a religiously motivated settler opposed to
his peace deal with the PLO the year before.
The rise of religion in Israeli politics has been mirrored by a simi-
lar process in Palestinian politics. In the Arab world, many saw the
humiliation of the Six-Day War as a damning indictment of the secular,
nationalist policies of Egypt’s Nasser. For many of the disappointed and
dispossessed, there was only one answer: Islam. The rise of Islamist poli-
tics and of parties like the Muslim Brotherhood dates from this period.
For Islamists, Jerusalem is just as important as it is for religious Zionists

and that makes the possibility of compromise just as difficult.
Jerusalem has come to signify the all-or-nothing nature of this strug-
gle. It is now a barometer of how the role of religion has evolved in the
course of the conflict and how, in turn, that has changed the nature of
the conflict itself, making it much more difficult to resolve. Religion is
no longer simply an issue of communal identity. Which was a tangled
enough web to unweave. Religion has become an issue of political ideol-
ogy. That risks turning the conflict into something it was not: a religious
war between Jews and Muslims. Which risks the conflict spreading far
beyond the region.
Nowhere is that more obvious—and more dangerous—than in
Jerusalem. In 2000, a visit by former defense minister (and future prime
minister) Ariel Sharon to what he called the Temple Mount and what
Arabs call the Haram al-Sharif started a riot and led to the Second Intifada.
Sharon was a particularly controversial figure for Palestinians because of
his role in the Lebanon War in 1982 when Israel’s Lebanese Phalangist
allies massacred nearly three thousand Palestinian civilians, many of
whom were women, in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps that summer.
He was banned from holding public office in Israel for years afterward.
The Second Intifada was much more violent than the first and was
disastrous for Israelis and Palestinians alike. Sharon’s visit was an example
of how, in the highly charged and divisive atmosphere of Jerusalem, events
can spiral quickly out of control and neither side is left unaffected.
Jerusalem is no ordinary city. And because it means so much to so
many, neither side can give it up. In this increasingly divisive and danger-
ous conflict, it is the one thing both sides have in common.
* * *
But what the two sides do not have in common is any balance of power.
Right now, one side has it all. The other has none.
On a political level, the State of Israel enjoys the enthusiastic support
of the political institutions of the most powerful country in the world.
As Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu said in his address to the US
Congress on March 3, 2015, the bond between the United States and Israel
is so close they are like “family.” As a result, Israel enjoys the protection
of the United States and its veto at the UN Security Council. Israel also
enjoys the almost unqualified support of most of the leaders and govern-
ments of the Western world.
The Palestinians, by contrast, find themselves standing where so many
Arabs have stood before them: on the wrong side of global power. While
they enjoy the support of large numbers of people in the West, that has
not translated into support for their cause at government level. That is
because Israel also enjoys popular support in the West, particularly
among the governments who see democratic Israel as one of their own:
part of the Western establishment, part of Western culture, part of the
global (i.e., Western-dominated) economy.
There is, however, one area where the Palestinians enjoy total support:
among the people of the Arab world. The near three hundred million
people in this region wholeheartedly back the Palestinians’ quest for an
independent state.
Yet that popular people-based support has failed to translate into sup-
port at government level. Which leads to one of the great conundrums
of the modern Middle East: why are leaders of the Arab world not doing
what members of the Jewish Diaspora do so effectively on behalf of Israel
and using their collective assets—in the Arabs’ case, their diplomatic
leverage, their oil wealth, and their considerable commercial clout—to
help the Palestinians achieve their goal of statehood?
The answer to that question goes directly to the heart of what’s
really going on in the Middle East: to the question of who holds power
and why.
Part IV
Kings, Colonels, and Coups:

Why There Is a Democratic
Deficit in the Arab World
15
Cairo: Wednesday,
July 23, 1952
T he coup was almost bloodless. In Cairo, there was so little opposi-

tion the city fell like “a ripe mango.”1 The strategic garrison town
of al-Arish in the Sinai fell the following day. As did Alexandria on the
Mediterranean coast.
The port city was Egypt’s summer capital. A home away from home
for the great and the good as they sought refuge from the suffocat-
ing heat of Cairo where, in July, temperatures can easily hit 50 degrees
Celsius. Among the exodus to the coast in the summer of 1952 was King
Farouq. He had taken up residence at his Ras al-Tin palace. Farouq was
the grandson of the man who built the Suez Canal—Khedive Ismail (r.
1863–79)—and the great-great-grandson of modern Egypt’s founding
father, Muhammad Ali (r. 1805–48).
By 1952, the dynasty’s glory days were long gone. Farouq had been on
the throne since 1936, and in many ways he symbolized everything that
was wrong with Egypt. Wealthy, corrupt, and increasingly unpopular, the
king had a roving eye and a dubious reputation. Allegations about his
private life were rife. At high society events, pretty young women would
often be shepherded out of the room by male relatives as soon as the king
appeared.2
Reputation was not Farouq’s only problem. He was dangerously out of
touch with his own people. He lived in a world of prestige and privilege
and his inner circle enjoyed a luxurious lifestyle of conspicuous consump-
tion far beyond the dreams of the average Egyptian.
This was a country with a massive wealth gap. Too much money was in
the hands of too few. In 1952, a mere six percent of the population owned
a massive 65 percent of Egypt’s agricultural land.3 Social mobility was
virtually nonexistent. Where you were born was where you were going
to stay.
Politically, the king lived a life fraught with contradictions. Over

Egyptians, he wielded absolute authority. He could (and frequently did)
negate the outcome of elections by invoking his right to dissolve parlia-
ment. Yet his real freedom of action was very limited. Farouq was under
the thumb of the British and he bitterly resented it. In theory, the Anglo-
Egyptian Treaty of 1936 freed Egypt from London’s control. In practice,
Britain’s ongoing military presence in Egypt allowed London to run
events from behind the scenes.
Farouq hoped that a good showing by Egypt’s military in the war in
Palestine in 1948 would raise his standing and help him reclaim his lost
popularity. The reverse turned out to be the case. Individual soldiers
fought with bravery and commitment but felt let down by poor leadership,
bad planning, and chronic lack of supplies. Returning home in defeat,
veterans were scathing in their criticism of the king, his government, and
his military top brass.
The humiliation of the war sealed King Farouq’s fate. Not long after-
ward, a group of nine young army officers, all of whom had served in the
1948 war, formed a clandestine movement of Free Officers. Their aim was
revolution. Egypt needed change and they planned to deliver it.
In October 1951, in a bid to shore up his own crumbling popularity,
Prime Minister Nahhas Pasha of the Wafd Party revoked the Anglo-
Egyptian Treaty. Parliament ratified the decision on the sixteenth of the
month.4 This treaty provided the cover for Britain’s military deployment
and veiled the gap between what Britain said about its role in Egypt and
what Britain actually did in the country. Without it, Britain’s presence in
Egypt was not only unwelcome but illegal. Britain reacted by declaring a
state of emergency.
From then on, events developed a momentum of their own. On
January 25, 1952, British forces attacked an Egyptian police station
in Ismailiyya, the city on the Suez Canal named after Khedive Ismail.
Dozens of Egyptian policemen were killed. Dozens more were injured.
The following day, all hell broke loose in Cairo. Any symbol of Britain
(or the West), no matter how innocuous, was attacked. Among the busi-
nesses destroyed was the stationery store owned by Edward Said’s father.
The day came to be known as Black Saturday. At the end of it, over 30
people were dead and over seven hundred businesses lay in ruins. The
scale of the destruction and the widespread discontent behind it laid bare
the cracks in the old order. The uneasy alliance between the British, the
king, and the political old guard was unraveling.
For Farouq, it would come to an end on his very own Black Saturday
six months later. On Saturday, July 26, tanks encircled his palace in
Alexandria. Fearing the worst, he accepted his fate and abdicated in favor
CAIRO: WEDNESDAY, JULY 23, 1952 149
of his son Ahmad Fuad, who was only six months old. He set sail that
evening for exile in Italy with his wife, his son, and two hundred pieces
of luggage. History was repeating itself: the deposed king traveled on the
same boat his grandfather Ismail had used when he went into exile in
1879.5 Farouq was lucky to escape with his life. Many of the Free Officers
wanted to execute him. Only the intervention of their leader, Colonel
Gamal Abdel Nasser, stopped them.6
Nasser was Farouq’s opposite. A man of the people, Nasser had made
his own way in life and was a rare example of successful social mobility.
He was born in Alexandria on January 15, 1918, but his roots were a world
away from the cosmopolitan city on the coast. His father was a Saidi, from
a village in Upper Egypt near Asyut, and his grandfather was a fellah.
These origins would later endear him to millions of Egyptians. In Nasser,
they would see themselves.
Nasser’s father worked as a clerk in the post office. It was a job that
required him to relocate every few years and, as a result, Nasser spent his
childhood in a variety of places: the big cities of Alexandria and Cairo and
the remote villages of Upper Egypt and the Delta. For a time in his early
childhood, he went to live with an uncle in the Khan al-Khalili quarter
of Old Cairo so he could go to school there. During this period, Nasser’s
mother died unexpectedly. He was only eight years old at the time. The
loss was exacerbated by his father’s swift remarriage, something Nasser
was said to have been less than happy about. As an adult, Nasser was
known for his near-paranoid inability to trust people and a sense of
detachment that bordered on insularity. Whether those tendencies can
be traced back to experiencing such loss so early in his childhood, we will
probably never know.7
By 1933, Nasser was back in Cairo. The 1930s were politically turbulent
and, like many young men, Nasser got caught up in the heady atmosphere
of the times. He was interested in the ideas of several political parties but
was satisfied by none of them. In his view, the established parties did not
understand the problems of ordinary people and were not doing enough
to free Egypt from foreign rule.
In November 1935, Nasser got involved in more direct action. He
attended a rally against British rule and ended up being shot and wounded.
His participation in the protest got him kicked out of school.8
Another young man from the country who also made the move to
the city and got caught up in the atmosphere of these times was Nasser’s
nemesis Sayyid Qutb.9 But where Qutb chose a career in education and
literature (and ultimately political Islam), Nasser chose the military.
Paradoxically, it was thanks to the British that he was able to make that
choice. In 1936, following the signing of the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty,
Egypt’s Military Academy opened up its officer corps training programs

beyond the narrow circles of the elite. The British encouraged this move.
Now that Egypt was a legally recognized strategic partner of the British,
London wanted that partner to pull its weight.10 The democratization
of Egypt’s army at Britain’s behest was not without a certain irony, as
Britain’s own military was one of the most highly stratified, rigidly struc-
tured, and class-conscious in the world.
Nasser applied to the Military Academy in 1936, was rejected, applied
again in 1937, and this time was accepted. After his training, he was
posted to Upper Egypt where he met and became friends with Anwar
Sadat, the man who would succeed him as president in 1970. In the heart
of Upper Egypt, with little to do in their spare time, young officers like
Nasser and Sadat whiled away their leisure hours talking politics, outlin-
ing what was wrong with Egypt and how it could be fixed.
By 1948, Nasser had risen to the rank of major. During the war that
year, he was credited with instigating a counter-attack against the Israelis
in Falluja near Beersheba in the Negev desert, which enabled his men,
pinned down and facing defeat, to hold out. He was shot in the chest, the
bullet only narrowly missing his heart.11
Back in Cairo after the war, Nasser was one of the nine men who met
secretly in 1949 to form the movement that would bring down the mon-
archy: the Committee of the Free Officers’ Movement. In 1950, he was
elected the committee’s chairman.
For the next few years, the Free Officers worked in the shadows. They
were not alone in wanting change. Such was the widespread dissatisfac-
tion with Egypt’s ruling class in the late 1940s and early 1950s that many
groups were working toward the same goal. The Free Officers were aware
of these groups and sought their support. The Muslim Brotherhood (the
Ikhwan al-Muslimin) had built up an impressive following since it was
founded in 1928 by a primary school teacher named Hasan al-Banna. The
Brothers wanted a more just society and believed the way to achieve it was
through Islamic principles. Communist and left-wing parties also enjoyed
popular support, although not to the same degree as the Brotherhood.
Like the Free Officers, left-wing groups believed Egypt needed radical
social as well as political change.
Yet when the Free Officers eventually acted, they acted alone. What
prompted them to launch their coup in July 1952 was fear of exposure. In
spite of their efforts at secrecy, the king had become aware of the conspir-
acies against him. Ultimately, that knowledge did him no good. Because
in losing the support of the young officer class in the army, the king effec-
tively lost control of the whole army—the one indigenous institution in
Egypt he could not rule without.
CAIRO: WEDNESDAY, JULY 23, 1952 151
When the tanks encircled King Farouq’s palace and the Free Officers
sent him packing, they shrewdly claimed they had not acted in the inter-
ests of the army but in the interests of the people. In doing so, they sought
popular legitimacy for their coup. They got it. Not only had they deposed
an unloved king and his equally unloved government, but they had also
struck a blow for Egyptian national pride, still reeling after the disaster of
1948, by giving the British a bloody nose.
The coup’s popular legitimacy was further enhanced by the man
appointed by the Free Officers to lead the country in the new era:
General Muhammad Neguib. The Free Officers were young—Nasser
was one of the oldest and he was only 34, whereas Neguib was in his
fifties. The young officers were concerned their age and inexperience
could be used against them by their opponents in the old order, whereas
Neguib’s age and rank radiated reassurance and gave the impression
that Egypt was in safe hands. Furthermore, he was one of the few senior
soldiers in the Egyptian army to emerge from the disastrous war of 1948
with any credibility.
While Neguib was the public face of the revolution, the leader of the
Free Officers, and thus the real leader of Egypt, was Nasser. His back-
ground and his childhood spent in rural villages and the poorer parts of
Cairo now stood him in very good stead. He knew how to appeal to the
man on the street. One of the first reforms the new regime introduced
was a reduction of the amount of land any one person could hold. The
plan was a forerunner of the massive land distribution schemes Nasser
later introduced and a direct attack on the über-rich landowning class. It
was hugely popular among the dispossessed poor: the people Nasser saw
as his natural powerbase.
There were, however, signs that populism was not going to mean
power-sharing. Less than a month after the coup, a group of workers
in a cotton mill near Alexandria took control of the business. The Free
Officers feared the workers’ actions might inspire copy-cat protests.
Widespread industrial unrest would be a double loss for the new regime.
Not only would it raise questions about the coup’s populist credentials,
it would be a huge boost for the Communist and left-wing groups. The
Free Officers sent the troops in. The striking workers were arrested. Two
were later hanged.12
The crackdown was a sign of things to come. By January 1953
all political parties had been dissolved. Belonging to the Muslim
Brotherhood or the Communist Party became a criminal offence. The
highest-ranking members in these groups were rounded up and jailed.
On January 23, 1953, exactly six months after the coup, the National
Liberation Party was set up. State-approved and state-sponsored, its
purpose was to act as the link between power and the people. And
it was to be the only link. From now on, all political activity in this
vast country of millions of people had to be funneled through this one
organization.
The one-party state had arrived.
Thanks to the Free Officers, Egypt was independent. But it was
not free.
16
The Kings, the Colonels,

and the Political Time
Warp: The Return of
the Middle Ages
It was not just Egypt. And it was not just Nasser.

Independence without freedom would become a theme of the postco-
lonial Middle East. In fact, it would become the dominant political theme
of the twentieth century and create many of the tensions currently rip-
ping the region apart. It did not matter whether the country in question
was an artificially created state cobbled together by the Great Powers after
the First World War (Iraq, Jordan, Syria). It did not matter whether the
country in question had a coherent national identity stretching back mil-
lennia (Egypt) or whether it was a newly formed entity designed to meet
the ambitions of a ruling family (the Gulf kingdoms). Nor did it matter
whether the head of state was a king or a colonel or whether independence
had come about through war or peace. Regardless of how the independent
state came into being or who led it, the outcome was the same across
the region. All the Arab states in the postcolonial Middle East, with the
exception of Lebanon, had one thing in common.
They did not become democratic.
The question is: why?
For centuries, the two main power blocs in the Arab Islamic world were
the monarchy and the military.1
The principle of hereditary succession was introduced to the caliphate

in the seventh century when the Umayyad caliph Muawiya (r. 661–80)
appointed his son Yazid to succeed him. There was more to this decision
than a father’s pride in his son. Muawiya sought to alter the entire politi-
cal framework underpinning the caliphate by keeping power in his family.
That family would then dominate the day-to-day business of power. They
would occupy the most important jobs, enjoy the most lucrative perks,
and keep their circle closed to outsiders. In effect, they would become
the medieval equivalent of the one-party state and the forerunner of the
authoritarian Arab ruling families of today.
Muawiya’s decision was not universally welcomed and led to civil war.
The caliph’s critics believed that any new ruler should be chosen through
a process of shura (consultation) within the community. Muslim reform-
ers nowadays cite shura as an early form of consensus-building and proof
that Islam is not incompatible with democracy.
Muawiya’s critics accused him of turning the caliphate into a mulk
(monarchy), which he had no right to do. The Prophet Muhammad had
not done it. Nor had the four Rashidun (Rightly Guided) Caliphs who
governed after Muhammad. Implicit in the description of these caliphs
as “Rightly Guided” is the suggestion that Muawiya and the rulers who
came after him veered from the correct way of doing things. The Prophet
was, and still is, the ultimate role model whose actions (or Sunna) are the
example every good Muslim seeks to follow. Yet Muawiya, who led the
community Muhammad founded, ignored the Prophet’s example.
In doing so, he also ignored the Quran. There is no shortage of kings
in the Muslim Holy Book, but Quranic kingship is a very different con-
cept from the hereditary power that came to be practiced across the Arab
world. In the Quran, kingship belongs to God. Repeatedly, the Quran
states that sovereignty belongs to God and to no one else.2 Because God
is the ultimate arbiter of power, He alone has the right to appoint kings
on earth. The few who received this honor are familiar figures from the
Bible: Abraham (4: 54), Joseph (12: 101), Saul (2: 247), Solomon (38: 35),
and David (38: 20). All are honored because of their obedience to God. In
all but Saul’s case, they are also prophets.3
Kingship in the Quran is, therefore, a sign of God’s favor. It is a God-
given privilege. It is not a human’s right. Muawiya and the dynastic rulers
who came after him, including those who rule today, could try to pass
their rule off as an Islamic version of a monarchy, but they would struggle
to find Quranic legitimacy for doing so.
Yet in spite of the opposition to Muawiya in particular and to monar-
chy in general, Muawiya’s Umayyad family ruled for nearly a century. In
692, his relative Abd al-Malik won the eight-year war waged against the
THE RETURN OF THE MIDDLE AGES 155
family. The reason for this success was simple: the army. It was fiercely
loyal and knew where its interests lay. The monarchy might be a closed
circle, accessible to an elite with a common gene pool, but the military
was egalitarian and offered a career path to anyone loyal to the caliph.
The two groups reinforced each other and, in doing so, shared the spoils
of power between them. The military kept the monarchy in power and the
monarchy kept the military in pay. Together, they became the two pillars
of the state.
With his victory in the civil war, Abd al-Malik, therefore, did more
than consolidate his family’s power. He consolidated the very idea of
family power. From then on, dynasty would become such an enduring
element of the political language of the Arab Middle East that it would
survive the exile of the Ottoman dynasty in 1924 to reemerge in the mon-
archies and sheikhdoms of the Gulf, Morocco, and Jordan.
Abd al-Malik’s victory ushered in another fundamental change to
the power structure of the caliphate. And it, too, endures to this day.
The army was his army. It was loyal to him and to his family, not to
the state. In the early days of the caliphate, especially during the con-
quests in the 630s and 640s, the Muslim military was a people’s army.
Its primary loyalty was to Islam. After the first civil war in 656–61,
that started to change. The community split and, as a result, the army
split too. Men in arms fought for a faction rather than a cause. This
change had profound consequences for the future of the military. The
first civil war brought the Umayyads to power. The second kept them
there. In both cases, it was not the popularity of the dynasty’s ideas that
led to their triumph. It was their military’s strength. As a result, the fate
of the monarchy and the military became so intertwined that neither
could survive without the other. This identification of the military with
a particular political faction led to the politicization of the military.
With the army now so overtly partisan, anyone seeking to overthrow
the Umayyads would need an army of their own. That, in turn, led to
the militarization of politics.
The idea of dynasty as a way to exercise power became so entrenched in
the Islamic world that when Umayyad authority fell apart, it was another
dynasty who replaced them: the Abbasids (r. 750–1258). The secret of
their success was the same combination of monarchy and military that
had formerly worked so well for the Umayyads.
But early in the ninth century, disaster struck the Abbasid family.
When the caliph Harun al-Rashid died in 809, sibling rivalry got the bet-
ter of his successor sons, al-Amin (r. 809–13) and al-Mamun (r. 813–33),
and they went to war against each other. It ended in victory for al-Mamun,
but it came at considerable cost. (This was the same al-Mamun who
inserted his name into the foundation stone of the Dome of the Rock.)
The war shattered the unity of the ruling family and left the army divided
against itself.
Watching from the wings was al-Mamun’s brother, al-Mutasim, who
was next in line to be caliph. Assessing the damage done by the war, al-
Mutasim came to a very clear conclusion. It was impossible to be caliph
without a loyal army and the only way to ensure the loyalty of the army
was to pay for it. Very quietly, al-Mutasim began recruiting his own pri-
vate army. By the time he came to power in 833, he had four thousand
men under his command.4
This private army made up of slave soldiers and foreigners (mostly
Turks) was nothing short of a revolution. It was not loyal to the caliph-
ate, to the ruling family, or to Islam. Many of the recruits were Muslim
in name only. Many did not even speak Arabic. This army was loyal
only to the caliph. Power was now completely personal and completely
unfettered. The caliph’s authority was absolute. To maintain this state of
affairs, all he had to do was maintain the army’s pay.
Al-Mutasim did more than that. He made the military his core con-
stituency. No longer did members of the ruling family occupy the key
offices of state and enjoy the perks that went with them, the military did.
This was a soldier-state in the making. But the critical question was what
would happen when this caliph, or one of his successors, could not keep
the army in the manner to which they were becoming accustomed?
The answer came not long after al-Mutasim’s death. When his son and
heir al-Wathiq (r. 842–7) died without appointing a successor, the army
took matters into their own hands. They played kingmaker and installed
their own choice as caliph, a son of their mentor al-Mutasim whose name
was al-Mutawakkil (r. 847–61).5
Unfortunately for the military, things did not work out as planned.
The new caliph tried to rule independently of their influence—he had a
number of them fired, others killed, others stripped of their assets—so
they stepped into the political process again and staged a coup. A group
of senior officers killed the caliph as he sat drinking with his friends. The
officers appointed one of his sons as his replacement.6
The murder of al-Mutawakkil in 861 was the first military coup in
Islam. It was the start of a trend that persists to this day. When Colonel
Nasser ousted King Farouq in 1952 and General el-Sisi ousted the Muslim
Brotherhood’s democratically elected president Muhammad Morsi in
2013, they were following the trail of military intervention in politics first
blazed back in the ninth century.
After the coup in 861, politics became increasingly messy. Caliph fol-
lowed caliph at breakneck speed. At times, the caliphate seemed like
little more than a plaything in the hands of the army. Unable to rule
directly because of their foreign origins but unwilling to lose their influ-
ence and the resources to pay their men, the army made and unmade
caliphs at will, depending on who they thought would best protect their
interests.
The political consequences of this turmoil would last far into the
future. The monarchy-military political unit that had underpinned the
caliphate for so long was in ruins. The two power blocs that had previ-
ously worked together to uphold the state were in direct competition for
control of that state. There were now two ways to power: to be born into
it or to fight for it.
Ironically, even those who fought for it became dynasties at the first
available opportunity. With the ruling family in disarray, the army in
crisis, and the state’s finances in the red, the provinces staked their claim
for greater autonomy. A number of far-flung provinces had been inde-
pendent for some time. Spain since 756, Morocco since 788, Tunisia since
800. Now was the turn of areas closer to the center of power. In 868, the
army sent a man named Ahmad ibn Tulun to govern Egypt. Once he set-
tled into the job of running one of the wealthiest regions in the empire,
he decided to keep it. He continued to pledge allegiance to the caliph but
ruled Egypt as his personal fief.7
These quasi-independent rulers started off as governors (usually with
very strong military connections), usurped power for themselves, then
followed the caliph’s example and monopolized power for their fami-
lies. The Idrisids in Morocco. The Aghlabids in Tunisia. The Tulunids in
Egypt. The same process was simultaneously occurring in the east of the
caliphate where a series of families with strong military connections—the
Tahirids, the Saffarids—ruled in the caliph’s name.8
The pull of dynasty was so strong that even when these dynasties fell,
they were replaced by different dynasties. The names changed but not
the method of rule. No one followed the Prophet Muhammad’s example
and left the community free to choose their own leader. No one followed
the example of the Rightly Guided Caliphs and left it to a consultative
council to decide a new leader. Dynasty had become so established as the
language of power that everyone adopted it.
The only alternative powerbase was the military, ruling as a soldier-
state, and even they were not immune to the magnetic pull of hereditary
power. From 1171, Egypt was ruled by the Ayyubid family. They employed
an army of Mamluks: slaves bought abroad as children, brought up in the
royal household, and trained to be the sultan’s loyal soldiers. It was the
same model al-Mutasim had used in the ninth century to build up his
private army. And it produced the same results.
In 1250 the Mamluks seized power and installed one of their own as
sultan. Theoretically, the Mamluks could not establish a dynasty because
their sons were born free and did not qualify as Mamluks. But that did
not stop them. In 1260, Baybars became sultan and within two years he
appointed his son Baraka as his heir. Another son, Salamish, was soon
appointed as the heir-in-waiting.9 And Baybars was by no means the
greatest dynast of the Mamluk era. That accolade went to Sultan al-Nasir
Muhammad. Sultan on three occasions himself (1293–4, 1298–1308,
1309–40), nine of al-Nasir’s sons, and three of his grandsons went on to
succeed him.10
The Mamluk soldier-state-cum-dynasty in Syria and Egypt lasted
until 1516 and 1517, respectively. And when the Mamluks lost power,
they, like the Ayyubids before them (1171–1250) and the Fatimids before
them (969–1171), lost it to another dynasty: the Ottomans of Istanbul.
Ottoman authority in Turkey stretched as far back as the thirteenth cen-
tury. The conqueror of Egypt and Syria, Selim I (r. 1512–20), was from the
family’s ninth generation. The Ottomans held power until the twenty-
second generation when the last of the line, Abdulmajid II, was sent into
exile in 1924.
From the beginning of Muawiya’s caliphate in 661 to Abdulmajid’s
exile in 1924, the caliphate was in the hands of one family after another.
These were not royal families. They were ruling families. They held all the
power and made all the decisions. The public were their subjects not their
fellow citizens. Dynasty, however, was not unique to the Islamic world. It
was such a durable form of government it was once the order of the day
across much of the world. The French King Louis XIV (r. 1643–1715) was
so powerful he once famously declared “I am the state” (L’ état, c’est moi).
But Europe moved on from Sun Kings and the Divine Right of Kings. The
Enlightenment, the French Revolution, the Industrial Revolution—all of
these changed the relationship between king and country, Church and
State, industry and workers, power and the people.
In this rapidly changing climate, European states had to embark on a
process of reinventing how power was exercised. It was not easy. It was
not painless. And it did not happen overnight. At times, it was labori-
ously slow. In France, for example, women did not get the vote until after
the Second World War.11 But, eventually, a new political dispensation
began to take shape in which the people had a voice. The public arena
was opened up to a plurality of views that, over time, led to the creation
of a culture of democracy and the checks and balances on power such a
culture involves.
No such transformation happened in the Middle East. In the nine-
teenth century when many parts of Europe were grappling to come to
terms with the demands of the modern world, much of the Middle East
was under European occupation. In terms of political development, the
timing could not have been worse. Imperialism had the effect of arresting
political development in the Arab world; of freezing the region in the past
with outdated political structures wholly unsuited to the modern world.
Even worse, imperialism and the contradiction inherent in it—we are
free but we will not extend that freedom to you—cast a long and danger-
ous shadow over the region. For some, it tainted everything connected
with Western politics and led not only to a rejection of democracy but a
rejection of anything to do with the West.
The Arab world, therefore, entered the modern era with its medieval
power structures intact. When the caliphate ended in 1924, the monar-
chy and the military were still the two main power blocs in the Arab
Islamic world. And neither of them showed any intention of wanting to
lose that power.
The Second World War sounded the death knell of European imperial-
ism in the Middle East. The cost of Allied victory was enormous. Britain
was broke and France was broken. With so much rebuilding to be done
at home, Britain and France could no longer afford their empires. But
that did not mean they were willing to let go completely. Both wanted to
retain influence in the region. Both saw it as a way to avoid being eclipsed
on the global stage by the rising superpowers of the United States and the
Soviet Union. That desire to hold on played into the hands of the Middle
East’s monarchy-military power blocs and defined how independence
was achieved and how power was exercised after it.
Imperialism divided the Arab Middle East and North Africa in two.
One group was made up of the colonies. Algeria, Egypt, Tunisia, and
Morocco fell into this category. Allied victory in the First World War
added Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Palestine, and Syria. Allied victory in the
Second added Libya. (Libya was occupied during the war. Britain con-
trolled the provinces of Cyrenaica and Tripolitania in the east and center;
France the province of Fazzan in the west.) In some of these countries,
European power was exercised indirectly through puppet rulers who
signed treaties rubber-stamping the European presence. In others, power
was exercised directly and amounted to occupation in all but name. In all
cases, the net effect was the same: foreign powers were in control.
The other group was made up of the client states. The Gulf king-
doms fell into this category. The Gulf was not subdued by arms but by
diplomacy. With the aim of protecting the sea route to India, Britain
made a series of treaty arrangements with ruling families in the Gulf
during the nineteenth century. In return for not attacking British ships,
these families received trade concessions and British military protection.
Central Arabia was the exception. Not unified as the Kingdom of Saudi
Arabia until 1932, it remained free of direct imperial interference. The
Saudis did, however, accept British financial and military support in the
Anglo-Saudi Treaty of 1915 in return for not attacking any British ally
in the region.
Such support from Britain left the Gulf’s ruling families free to con-
centrate on consolidating their own power over local rivals. This arrange-
ment was a new twist on the centuries-old monarchy-military alliance,
with Britain as the military part of the alliance. Consequently, Britain
developed very close diplomatic relations with the region’s ruling families
and, whether by default or design, developed a vested interest in keeping
them in power.12
In the client states, foreign powers were not directly in control the way
they were in the colonies. Thanks to the terms of the treaties they made with
local rulers, they did not need to be. The trade-off between the two parties
meant both got what they wanted. For example, from 1868 to 1883 the sul-
tan in Muscat faced a series of tribal uprisings against his rule. He turned to
Britain for help and British forces fought his battles for him and kept him in
power.13 For the British, interventions like these were a highly cost-effective
way of running their overseas empire. In terms of men, money, and mate-
rial, it was much cheaper than occupying a country the size of Egypt.
These two experiences of European imperialism—colonization or cli-
entage—would shape the Middle East long after Britain and France had
left. And it continues to do so. This was because most of the colonies
had to fight for independence. And to fight for it, they needed an army.
That automatically privileged the role of the military postindependence.
A classic example was Egypt. Straight after the military coup in 1952, the
military held onto power and Egypt became a military state. Algeria was
another country that had to fight its way to freedom. And the political
results were the same as Egypt’s.
The Algerian War of Independence (1954–62) was so costly in terms
of lives lost—over a quarter of a million Algerians and over twenty thou-
sand French—that it became a byword for colonial struggle. For France,
letting go of Algeria was never going to be straightforward because the
country had become completely enmeshed in French life. Huge numbers
of French settlers saw the country as home and had no interest in leaving.
They elected representatives to the Chamber of Deputies and their cause
enjoyed considerable support among the French military. Even if they had
wanted to, the French could not cut and run from Algeria. This raised
the stakes and the war became so brutal and so all-pervasive that it tore
Algeria apart.
The independence movement was made up of people from all walks
of life, but after the war, it was clear who the winners were. The generals
took over. Algeria’s first president was Ahmad Ben Bella, a veteran of
the struggle for independence. In June 1965, he was ousted in a military
coup and General Houari Boumedienne took over. Within two years,
Algeria was a military state.14 In Algeria, as in Egypt, independence did
not mean freedom.
For France, the political consequences of the war were also consider-
able. The Fourth Republic collapsed.
There were no such wars for the client states in the Middle East. These
states negotiated their independence. The Gulf countries were not created
secretly in Whitehall or at postwar conferences where lines were hastily
drawn on a map for the convenience of the Great Powers. The state bound-
aries in the Gulf were drawn up between long-standing allies—the British
and the ruling family in question—neither of whom had an interest in
seeing any fundamental change. The British wanted to keep their influ-
ence. The ruling families wanted to keep their power. The status quo was,
therefore, written into the process of state formation. This gave the ruling
families, whose power predated the state, an unprecedented opportunity
to create countries in their own image. Under such conditions, power was
not delegated to any independent institutions. It remained the prerogative
of the ruler and his family.
Oman became independent in 1955. Kuwait in 1961. Bahrain and
Qatar in 1971. Six of the seven Trucial States (Abu Dhabai, Ajman, Dubai,
Fujayrah, Sharja, and Umm Qaywayn) united in 1971 to form the United
Arab Emirates. The seventh, Ras al-Khaymah, joined in 1972.
These are young countries with old patterns of power. The Bu Saids
in Oman, the Sabahs in Kuwait, the Khalifas in Bahrain, the Thanis in
Qatar, the Maktoums and the Nahayans in the United Arab Emirates—
these families have held power for centuries. The countries they created
in the later part of the twentieth century solidified that power. In the
twentieth-century Gulf, the spirit of Louis XIV was alive and well. These
families are the state.
Elsewhere in the Middle East and North Africa, seismic political shifts
occurred after independence, but the basic patterns of power did not
change. The binary of the monarchy or the military remained the norm.
There was no attempt to introduce an alternative system.
Iraq and Jordan did not fit the standard description of a colony or a
client state. Technically, they were colonies: the land was occupied by the
British during the First World War then carved up to suit British inter-
ests. Yet their kings, as British appointees, were clients.
Transjordan was rebranded the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan in 1946
when the country became independent and the amir, Abdullah, took on
the title king. As usually happened when a client state became indepen-
dent, the transition was peaceful and the king remained a firm friend of
the British. As does his great-grandson, the current ruler, King Abdullah
II, in power since 1999.
In Iraq, the British-appointed king, Faysal, provided the cover for
British rule. Iraq was the first Arab country to become independent when
the Anglo-Iraqi Treaty of 1930 was ratified in 1932. But Iraq was inde-
pendent in name only and the Iraqis grew tired of Britain wielding power
behind the scenes. As usually happened when a client was overthrown
by his own people, this transition was far from peaceful. The military
staged a coup on July 14, 1958, and killed the king, Faysal II (r. 1939–58).
The officers behind the coup called themselves the “Free Officers” after
the Free Officers in Egypt. And as was the case in Egypt, once these sol-
diers seized power, they kept it and Iraq became a military state. The
first president was the leader of the Free Officers, Brigadier General Abd
al-Karim Qasim. In February 1963, he was ousted in another military
coup—this one backed by, of all people, the CIA; and another soldier,
Colonel Abd al-Salam Arif, became president. The colonel’s vice presi-
dent was a general.15
Libya was another kingdom where a military coup took place. In 1949,
the United Nations passed a resolution calling for the country’s indepen-
dence. Two years later, the British withdrew and Idris al-Sanusi became
king. Idris’s family had founded the Sanusi Sufi order in 1837, and this
order led the struggle against Libya’s foreign occupiers—first the Italians
in 1911, then the British and French in the 1940s. After independence,
Idris claimed the crown as his reward.
During his lengthy reign, he came to be seen by many of Libya’s
younger generation as financially corrupt and too dependent on foreign
powers. In 1969, a group of soldiers led by Muammar Gaddafi staged a
coup and took power. Inspired by Nasser’s Free Officers, they consid-
ered themselves Libya’s equivalent movement. In emulation of Nasser,
Qaddafi assumed the rank of colonel even though he was a captain.16 Like
Nasser, once Gaddafi was in power, he had no intention of giving it up.
Strictly speaking, Libya did not become a military state. No military junta
was in charge. Calling himself the “Brother Leader,” Gaddafi ruled alone
in the style of a medieval monarch rather than a soldier-president who
has to keep the army on side. But Gaddafi was no benign father figure.
He monopolized coercive force in his own hands and used it excessively
against his own people. Under his despotic, chaotic, and often insane
rule, Libya became one of the most repressed places on the planet.
Like Libya, Morocco and Tunisia were North African countries that
had experienced European occupation. And like Libya, Morocco and
Tunisia became independent with monarchs at the helm. Morocco stayed
that way. Tunisia did not.
Morocco became independent in March 1956. At the time, France
was bogged down fighting the war in Algeria and another war in Indo-
China. The prospect of having to fight on another front in North Africa
brought the French to the negotiating table. An important figure in the
independence movement was Morocco’s sultan, Muhammad V, who
claimed descent from the Prophet Muhammad and whose family had
been in power since the sixteenth century. He led the country into inde-
pendence and kept power after it. A year later, he declared himself king.
Like the sultans and sheikhs of the Gulf, he was no constitutional mon-
arch. Absolute power was his.17
Tunisia also became independent in March 1956. The same dynamic
that led the French to negotiate with the Moroccans also led them to
negotiate with the Tunisians. The key figure in the Tunisian drive for
independence was Habib Bourguiba of the Neo-Destour (Constitution)
Party and, in a pattern that is now all too familiar, he took power after
independence and kept it. In 1957, the hereditary ruler of Tunisia (the bey)
whose family had been in power since 1705 was deposed and Bourguiba
became president. Two years later, a new constitution gave him absolute
power. Tunisia did not become a military state along the lines of Egypt—
the Tunisian military was relatively small—but it did not become free.
Bourguiba used the full coercive powers of the state to monopolize power
and establish authoritarian rule.18
In the heart of the Middle East, the country that once ruled the Arab
world took a different path to independence. Syria became independent
almost by accident. Britain and France reoccupied it in 1941 and it was
not long before old imperial rivalries resurfaced. Both wanted Syria in
their sphere of influence after the war. To avoid either one gaining overall
control, they agreed to grant Syria independence after the war, thinking
it would never actually happen. Damascus called their bluff and declared
independence in 1946.
Thanks to French efforts to build up Syria’s military during the
Mandate, the army was one of the strongest institutions in newly inde-
pendent Syria. And it soon made its presence felt in politics. In 1949 alone,
there were three military coups. It was the shape of things to come. When
the brief union with Nasser’s Egypt (the United Arab Republic) ended
after three years in 1961, the military’s involvement in politics scaled new
heights. In the 1960s there were almost too many coups to count.19 The
end result of all those coups was the presidency of air force general Hafiz
al-Asad in 1971 and the complete military takeover of the state.
The exception to the military-monarchy monopoly of power was Lebanon.

It, alone, did not become a military republic or an absolute monarchy.
Instead Lebanon’s religious diversity, cosmopolitanism, and long-estab-
lished commercial community took the country in a different direction.
The constitution of 1926, put together during the French Mandate,
legislated for power-sharing between the country’s three main groups.
The Lebanese Republic would have a Christian president, a Sunni prime
minister, and a Shi‘i speaker of parliament. These offices were allocated
on the basis of the population figures at the time. They took no account
of likely future population growth or the fact that one community, the
Shi‘is, had a much higher birth rate than another, the Christians.
Lebanon became independent in 1945. The transition was peace-
ful largely thanks to the efforts of the country’s two main political
groupings. Two years earlier, the French-leaning National Bloc and the
Syrian-leaning Constitutional Bloc formed a National Pact. 20 This kind
of consensus-building meant Lebanon became independent without
the kind of bloodshed or repression seen elsewhere in the Arab world.
Coalition governments became the norm. The young republic used its
new-found independence and openness to become a regional leader in
many businesses including banking and publishing.
That openness did not last. In 1958, a coup tried to turn Lebanon into a
Nasser-style republic. It took the intervention of the US military to main-
tain the status quo. But the genie was out of the bottle. The 1958 foreign
intervention would not be the last. The story of Lebanon for the rest of
the twentieth century was of a country whose internal complications were
played upon by outside powers determined to use the instability resulting
from those complications to achieve their own geopolitical agendas in the
wider region, regardless of the cost to Lebanon and the Lebanese people.
Syria, Iran, Israel, the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), and the
United States—all, at one time or another, became embroiled in Lebanon.
Lebanon in the 1970s and 1980s was like many of the current wars in the
Middle East: a political struggle that turned into a civil war that turned
into a sectarian war that turned into a proxy war.
As for the Lebanese themselves, they split along religious lines. Religion
and identity became the same thing. While the 1926 Constitution, with
its inbuilt division of power, spared Lebanon from the autocratic rule
that blighted the rest of the Arab Middle East, it could not save the coun-
try from civil war. From 1975 to 1990, a horrendous sectarian struggle,
made even worse by the involvement of outside powers, ripped Lebanon
apart. Even today, long after the war has ended, many of the tensions that
sparked the war in the first place remain unresolved and simmer beneath
the surface.
* * *
From the Atlantic Ocean to the Persian Gulf, there was a common denom-
inator in the politics of the Arab world in the twentieth century.
Independence was no brave new dawn. It was a return to the Middle
Ages. Rather than taking the Middle East in a new political direction,
independence institutionalized the role of the monarchy and the military.
Authoritarian rule, whether by a king or a colonel, remained the standard
expression of power.
The incredible tenacity of this trend speaks volumes about the nature
of power in the Arab Middle East and who has access to it. In the twen-
tieth century, power was still the privilege of a select few: a ruling family
backed by a loyal army or an army loyal to itself. Politics was still milita-
rized and the military was still politicized.
The Arab world was stuck in a time warp.
17
I Am the State: Power,

Politics, and the Cult
of Personality
As soon as the kings and the colonels took power, their main priority was
to keep it. To do this, they developed narratives to legitimize their author-
ity and to bridge the gap between the rulers and ruled.
For the kings, the narrative was tradition. For the colonels, it was revo-
lution. These narratives were then backed up by a mixture of hard and
soft power. The hard power was coercion. The soft power was patronage
(in the oil-rich Gulf kingdoms) and populism (in the less wealthy military
states).1 In spite of the different narratives and different approaches, the
goal for both camps was the same: complete control of the state, complete
control of the levers of power, complete control of the political arena.2
The monarchies were well placed to achieve their aim. Most of them
had exercised power long before the state existed. Some of them had been
in power as far back as the eighteenth century: the Bu Said family in
Oman since 1741, the Sabah family in Kuwait since 1752, the Khalifa fam-
ily in Bahrain since 1783. This long-term relationship with power gave
them the opportunity to build a state system that shut out all rivals. And
because these families had been around for so long, they already had sub-
stantial networks of supporters in place. Tribal leaders, religious scholars,
the commercial community—all had their niche in society and all knew
how to access patronage.
That patronage became even more important after oil and gas were
discovered in huge quantities across the Arabian peninsula. Oil was dis-
covered in Bahrain in 1932, the same year the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
was founded. The oil deposits along the kingdom’s east coast made it one
of the richest countries in the world. It is still the world’s biggest producer
and its ability to act as a swing producer gives it a uniquely dominant
position in the global energy market, as is often evident at OPEC meet-
ings on production levels.
Gulf rulers have used that immense oil wealth to create generous
cradle-to-grave welfare systems that have enabled their citizens to expect
the security of life-long state employment, access to first-class health care,
and the financial support to study at some of the world’s elite universities.
Such levels of state funding are almost unimaginable to cash-strapped
students in the West or to anyone who has to pay for medical treatment.
The Gulf economies have also benefited from low, or in some cases, zero
taxation. (This system, however, makes no provision for what will happen
if the oil price plummets and the money runs out.)
This generosity has a political point. It is designed to generate goodwill
for the ruling family and create a climate where people benefit so much,
they come to the conclusion it is best not to rock the boat. The political
calculation made by the ruling families is equally straightforward. Since
they were responsible for creating this disproportionately generous sys-
tem of state benefits, only they can be trusted to protect it.
The ruling families also promise to protect the external security of
their states. Here, the long-standing diplomatic and military relation-
ships between the Gulf ruling families and the United Kingdom served
them well postindependence. Long after the British Empire had faded
into memory and there was no strategic need to protect the route to India,
the UK continued to conduct military exercises in the Gulf and main-
tain close military ties with its former clients in the region. This ongo-
ing relationship brought the Gulf into the American-led Western defense
alliance. During the Cold War, that alliance provided a sense of external
security which the Gulf states, with long porous borders and relatively
small armies, could not have provided for themselves.
The Cold War alliance of the West and the Gulf was mutually benefi-
cial. In geostrategic terms, the West wanted to secure the supply of oil, the
lifeblood of Western economies, from possible Soviet attack. That meant
protecting the oil fields and the shipping routes, hence the need for mili-
tary bases in the region. American presidents and British prime ministers
had an economic aim too: they wanted to protect the privileged position
of US and UK oil companies so that if any new oil fields were discovered,
they would be first in line to reap the rewards.
For the Gulf ruling families, the alliance with the West was so ben-
eficial, it became a virtuous circle. By placing themselves under the
Western defense umbrella, they also reinforced their position at home.
Without ever saying it openly, Washington and London had no wish to
I AM THE STATE 169
lose such reliable allies. The Gulf rulers opened their territory to Western
military bases, opened their air space to Western air forces, and opened
their exchequers to buy Western-made weapons. During the Cold War,
Western leaders often talked of the lack of freedom for the people of the
Communist Bloc. They talked much less of the lack of freedom for the
people of the Gulf. They were too concerned with maintaining regional
stability.
Stability became the mantra of the rulers and the watchword of their
allies. In a number of ways, it played well with the conservative nature of
society in these countries. Much of that conservatism came from religion.
In the Gulf, a very conservative interpretation of Islam was harnessed
by state authorities to cement the status quo. The religious establishment
was privileged over other groups, especially in the Kingdom of Saudi
Arabia, and society was effectively split in two: political power belonged
to the princes and the public space to the preachers. In Saudi Arabia, it
was a particularly effective trade-off for the ruling family. By giving the
religious scholars so much say over social issues, the ruling family tied
them into the power structure and ensured religious endorsement for
their rule.
There was another significant upside to having the religious estab-
lishment so firmly on side. Once the ruler had identified himself so
strongly with the faith, it became incredibly difficult, if not impossible,
to criticize him because criticizing him became the equivalent of criti-
cizing the faith.
This religious underpinning of power performed yet another key func-
tion: it helped deflect criticism from abroad. Western leaders publicly
bought the line that the conservative kings of the Gulf ruled in accordance
with their religion. That made their Western allies reluctant to interfere
(or, more cynically, it gave them cover not to interfere) when human rights
groups in the West complained about abuses of power in any of these
countries. Western politicians, mostly of Christian heritage, did not want
to appear as if they were attacking Islam. A more cynical interpretation
would be that they did not want to upset an alliance so profitable to their
geopolitical interests and to their defense and oil industries.
In Jordan and Morocco, religion played a critical role in promoting regal
legitimacy. Both families claim descent from the Prophet Muhammad.
That connection allows them to tap into the respect Muslims have for
their Prophet and use it as a way of bridging the gap between rulers and
ruled. The Jordanian monarchs belong to the Prophet’s clan of Hashem
(Hashem was the Prophet’s great-grandfather) and this relationship is
demonstrated in the country’s name: the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.
The constant reminders of the connection to the Prophet are meant to
make it harder to criticize the king. This king, like his Moroccan coun-
terpart, is not just any king; he is a descendant of Muhammad. Implicit in
this is the suggestion that any criticism of the king is, by default, a criti-
cism of the Prophet’s family.
Relationships like these have the effect of making power very personal.
And this was intentional. The personalization of power was a major part of
the political landscape of the Arab world after independence. Identifying
the head of state as the state was so effective that everyone did it: kings
and colonels alike. It gave a ruler unlimited economic, political, and coer-
cive power. It blurred the lines between the public and the private and
made the state finances the ruler’s to dispose of as he pleased. It created
the circumstances where all opposition—political parties, trade unions,
student groups—was stifled and parliaments, if they existed at all, existed
as an echo chamber for the ruler’s decisions.
And, perhaps most crucially of all, it meant the development of a cult
of personality that turned the public space into a cross between a fas-
cist rally and a version of 1984. Big Brother was everywhere. You could
be checking into a hotel in Morocco or strolling along a street in down-
town Amman: oversized pictures of the nation’s ruler gazing down upon
his people would always be somewhere in view. Sometimes, there would
even be two rulers in the posters. In Bahrain, after the regime’s brutal
crackdown against the peaceful protestors at Pearl Roundabout in March
2011, billboard-size posters popped up all over the capital featuring the
Bahraini king with his Saudi counterpart. The Saudis had provided mili-
tary support for the crackdown. And just in case Bahrainis missed the
message the regime was sending them, the posters were emblazoned with
words specifically addressed to the Saudi king from his Bahraini opposite
number: Shukran Jazilan, Thank you.
In general, the idea behind these ubiquitous posters was to show the
ruler as the father of the nation, looking paternally upon his people, but
the reality is much more cynical. The psychological impact of seeing the
head of state wherever you go is immensely powerful. It is a form of pro-
paganda that is designed to seep into you without you even noticing and
to modify your behavior without you even realizing.
Politically, the consequences of the cult of personality are even more
powerful. The personalization of power has kept Arab countries, mon-
archy and military state alike, in a state of chronic institutional under-
development and removed any possibility of oversight or accountability
of those in charge. Instead of building independent institutions through
which power could be exercised, public services delivered and the econ-
omy developed, power has remained vested in the ruler and his inner
circle. Across the Middle East, there is a therefore an enormous black hole
I AM THE STATE 171
at the heart of power. This institutional gap means that in the event of any
change to the status quo, any new order will literally have to start from
zero and build from the bottom up—a truly daunting task.
In the Gulf kingdoms, the personalization of power means the rul-
ing family occupy nearly all the main offices of state. In this, they have
taken on the role of the ruling party in a one-party state. With one main
difference: this is a very exclusive political club—one you can only enter
through birth or marriage. Key ministries like the interior, defense, for-
eign affairs are given to the ruler’s brothers or sons or uncles. The same
goes for key diplomatic postings, especially to Washington. The succes-
sion is restricted to the family and, in most cases, it is the ruler acting
alone who makes the decision or who has the final say. There is little or
no consultation or consensus-building involved.
It is a state of affairs remarkably similar to the caliphate under the
Umayyads or the Abbasids in the 600s and 700s when caliphs held all the
power, gave all the plum jobs to relatives and used their military to defeat
opponents. And, as was the case in the medieval era, the options for get-
ting rid of a ruler were limited to an external revolution that brought
down the whole state or a plot from within the family.
In the monarchies of the modern Middle East, palace coups (some-
times rebranded as “medical coups”) have become the method of choice
to remove an incompetent or a problematic king. In all cases, after the
coup, power has remained in the family. Jordan’s King Talal (r. 1951–2) was
quickly and quietly removed to make way for his son Hussein (r. 1952–99).
Saudi Arabia’s King Saud (r. 1953–64) was ushered off the stage to make
way for his brother Faisal (r. 1964–75). (Faisal was shot dead in 1975. This,
too, was an internal act—the work of an “unstable” relative with a grudge
against the king, according to the official version of events. The unofficial
version of events is a conspiracy theorist’s dream in which the CIA tops the
list of likely assassins—their goal to punish Faisal for the oil embargo in
1973 and to make sure no such embargo ever happened again. But no evi-
dence is ever cited.) In 1970, Oman’s Sultan Said (r. 1932–70) was pushed
from power by the Oman’s long-time backers, the British, acting in con-
junction with the sultan’s son Qabus. A dangerously despotic dictator with
a reputation for brutality, Said was considered a liability and had to go. 3
This monopolization of power by a small elite has led to a trickledown
culture of corruption that has leaked into all aspects of public life where
who you know has become much more important than what you know.
In Arabic, this is known as wasta which comes from the word meaning
“the middle.” That, in itself, is an acknowledgment that to plot a course
through the Byzantine bureaucracy in these countries, you cannot do it
alone. You need a middleman.
Furthermore, the concentration of power in the hands of such a small

elite has raised the stakes for anyone opposed to the regime. And not only
because these regimes are merciless toward political opponents. Since
there is no separation of power, since the ruler is the state, then bringing
down the ruler could involve bringing down the state. That, together with
the lack of independent institutions in place to support the state, means
any regime collapse could spell chaos.
The ruling families of the Arab world have long played on a fear of
chaos to maintain the status quo. In a region beset by colonial wars, proxy
wars, civil wars, and terrorism, this better-the-devil-you-know policy has
been deployed to great effect, especially since the Arab Spring, to encour-
age people not to risk change. The policy is not new. It has been around
since the seventh century. The caliph Muawiya was the first to use it. He
came to power through a civil war and knew he did not have the whole-
hearted support of the community. His answer was to play on the fear
of communal strife ( fitna) to bolster his position. History casts a long
shadow in the Middle East. His modern counterparts are doing exactly
the same.
The military states took a different route to legitimize their authority.

Where the monarchies emphasized tradition and religion, the military
republics emphasized revolution and the nation.
From the military’s point of view, it was a tactic that made perfect
political sense. The nation helped foster a sense of communal identity.
While the conservative monarchies looked to Islam to provide this, the
military republics could not. Many of them had large Christian commu-
nities who had to feel part of the new order. In some of the military states,
promoting the national identity helped promote the idea of the nation
itself. A country like Egypt, with seven millennia of history behind it,
already had a well-developed sense of national identity. New countries
like Iraq and Syria did not. The leaders of these states had to create a sense
of belonging. Patriotism provided the opportunity.
There was another reason the military looked to the nation rather
than the faith as a means of legitimacy. The military saw themselves as
modern, progressive, even radical, and believed a secular state best repre-
sented that outlook.
When it came to the revolution, in many countries across the Arab
world, it was the army who brought the old order down. The army there-
fore believed they were the only group in society strong enough to protect
the revolution from any return of the old guard.
I AM THE STATE 173
This particular idea played well with many ordinary people who were
glad to see the back of a political order that had done nothing for them
and was widely seen as corrupt and incompetent. In contrast to the old
order, the leaders of the postrevolutionary Arab republics were men who
looked and talked like the ordinary man in the street. They did not come
from elite families. They had not been educated abroad. They had come
up the hard way. Nasser was a classic example. Before the revolution, it
would have been unthinkable for the leader of Egypt to be a man whose
grandfather was a fellah and whose father was a clerk. When Nasser took
to the stage to deliver a speech at a mass rally, he managed to pull off the
politically impossible: to be ordinary and extraordinary at the same time.
The crowds loved him for it. In him, they saw a different Egypt—an Egypt
in which someone spoke for them.
Academics and analysts often treat politics and the study of power as
a purely rational exercise. But in reality, politics can be a hugely emo-
tional experience, especially for people who have been locked out of the
process for a long time. Nasser was able to tap into that. He was also able
to manipulate it. When he became president in November 1954, he used
that groundswell of popular support to personalize his power and create
a political system that ruthlessly crushed any opposition. Like the mon-
archs in the Middle East, Nasser established such a strong cult of person-
ality that he, like them, became the state. To challenge him was to betray
the revolution. To criticize him was to side with the imperialists. Loyalty
to the nation and loyalty to Nasser became one and the same.
Nasser was constantly on the lookout—almost to the point of para-
noia—for Western plots against him. The CIA-led coup in Iran in 1953
which overthrew the popular prime minister, Muhammad Mosaddeq,
and brought back the not-so-popular Shah was what Nasser feared could
happen in Egypt. When British, French, and Israeli forces attacked Suez
in October 1956 after Nasser nationalized the canal, Nasser saw it as an
imperialist plot to unseat him.
Instead, it strengthened his grip on power. His nationalization plan
was popular with Egyptians and he used the Suez War to reinforce the
idea that only he, and the army who supported him, could protect Egypt
from outside interference. Even though militarily, Suez was a defeat for
Egypt; politically, it was a triumph for Nasser. After Suez, the assets of
anyone British, French or Jewish were seized and the threat of Western
intervention became a useful tool in suppressing or silencing internal dis-
sent. Everyone needed to unite against the outside threat.
According to Egyptian novelist Samia Serageldin, part of Nasser’s
genius was his ability to find scapegoats for his, and the regime’s, failings.
In Israel and the Western powers, he found them.4 External opponents in
the West were blamed for Egypt’s underdevelopment. Colonialism had

held the country back, exploited its resources, and integrated it into the
global economy on unfavorable terms. Regional enemies like the Arab
monarchies were branded as reactionary and as stooges of the West. In
a deliberate move, Nasser turned Egypt away from the West and toward
the Soviet Union for the technical, military, and financial aid needed to
develop the country’s infrastructure.
But after so many decades of foreign rule in Egypt, Nasser was reluc-
tant to rely too heavily on any one power. Internationally, he steered a
more neutral course and along with India’s Nehru and Yugoslavia’s Tito,
Nasser became a leading light in the Non-Aligned Movement of postco-
lonial countries. The Bandung Conference in 1955 gave him, and Egypt,
a high-profile place on the international stage. It played well at home. So
too did his calls for Arab unity.
At home, Nasser entrenched his power through a carefully calibrated
system of populism and pressure. High-profile infrastructure proj-
ects like the Aswan Dam showed Egypt was casting off the shadow of
colonialism and advancing toward modernization. In populist terms,
Nasser’s fiery anti-imperialist rhetoric (especially against Israel) reso-
nated with all sections of society. As a veteran of the 1948 war, he spoke
with an authority on the plight of the Palestinians that King Farouq
never had. It was not just Egyptians who admired him for this. His
radio broadcasts were listened to across the Arab world. People would
eagerly anticipate what the Voice of the Arabs had to tell them, includ-
ing people in the conservative countries of the Gulf where the kings and
sheikhs were opposed to practically everything Nasser and his regime
stood for.
Important though their country’s newly elevated international posi-
tion was to Egyptians; what really sealed the deal between the president
and many of his people was the massive land redistribution project he
introduced. Under the sequestration orders issued by the regime, the
massive estates of wealthy landowners were confiscated and given in
smaller lots to the people who farmed them. In one fell swoop, Nasser
destroyed the economic power of the old political class, eliminating
them as a possible threat, while simultaneously cementing his place as
the people’s president. For the first time in their lives, many fellaheen
owned land.
Other changes that made a radical difference in people’s daily lives
included the provision of health care and free education, subsidized
consumer goods, and the guarantee of a government job. Over time,
this would lead to a bloated bureaucracy and chronic underemploy-
ment. But in the early years of the new regime, these changes were
I AM THE STATE 175
truly revolutionary and had such a positive transformative impact on

so many lives that plenty of people did not look too closely at the sort of
state Nasser was actually building.
This was an authoritarian one-party state with no room for alternative
views. The country was run by the Revolutionary Command Council,
made up of Free Officers, and whoever controlled it controlled Egypt.
Increasingly, that person was Nasser. And increasingly, he maneuvered
behind the scenes to concentrate power in his hands and to eliminate any
form of potential opposition; both from within the RCC and from with-
out. On June 18, 1953, the monarchy was abolished and Egypt became a
republic with General Neguib as the first president. Revolutionary tribu-
nals were established to try figures from the old regime, thereby destroy-
ing the old party of power, the Wafd, and the credibility of the judiciary in
one move. Censorship became law. Internal opponents, like the Muslim
Brotherhood or the Communists, were criminalized as a security threat
to the regime and the revolution. Nasser banned the Muslim Brotherhood
in February 1954.
State repression against the Brotherhood reached a whole new level
after one of their members, Mahmud Abdel Latif, tried to assassinate
Nasser at a rally in his hometown of Alexandria on October 26, 1954. (He
said afterwards he had been forced into it.) Nasser’s gutsy performance—
proclaiming defiantly to the crowds, “If I die, you are all Gamal Abdel
Nassers,” as the bullets whizzed past him and struck a light bulb above
his head—inspired two hundred thousand people to take to the streets to
welcome him on his return to Cairo.5
The Brotherhood now felt the wrath of a hostile state. Many were
rounded up and sentenced in what were little more than show trials.
Their Supreme Leader, Hassan al-Hudaybi, was sentenced to life impris-
onment and two members of the Supreme Council were hanged.6 It would
get worse. During the 1960s, the repression of the Muslim Brotherhood
by Nasser’s regime reached quite shocking proportions and thousands of
their members were sent to what were essentially gulags.
On November 14, 1954, barely a fortnight after the assassination
attempt on Nasser, the 36-year-old colonel achieved his ultimate ambi-
tion. On the flimsy and highly improbable pretext of conspiring with the
Muslim Brotherhood, General Neguib was removed from the presidency
and Nasser took over. His popularity with his fellow officers and much
of the masses made him virtually untouchable. Power in Egypt was now
so highly personalized; there was no legitimate means left to question it.
Parliamentary elections were dropped. Presidential elections merely con-
firmed the status quo. In the first such election, held in June 1956, Nasser
polled 99.9 percent of the vote.7
The revolution had turned Egypt into a military state with a leader who
had powers akin to a pharaoh. This complete merging of the military and
the political had repercussions at home and abroad. Military power soon
extended far beyond politics. The army monopolized large sections of the
economy to finance their budget. This type of command economy and
the subsequent lack of any independent regulation skewed the internal
market and, over time, reduced Egypt’s commercial competitiveness. It
also closed large parts of the economy to newcomers. Here, too, who you
knew was more important than what you knew. Here, too, to get ahead
you had to be part of the system.
Another side-effect of the military takeover played out within the
military itself. In societies where the military is an independent institu-
tion which serves the state, its primary function is to defend that state.
In Egypt, that was not the case. The primary function of Egypt’s mili-
tary was to maintain its control of the state. Every other military priority,
including the issue of what to do about Palestine, came after that. In the
state Nasser built, Egypt was a country that had effectively been occu-
pied by its own army.8 And because the person who made the political
decisions was also the person making all the military decisions, Egypt’s
army lacked any independent oversight—a serious flaw that threatened
its battlefield effectiveness.
What happened in Egypt mattered because Egypt was, and still is, no
ordinary country in the Arab Middle East: it is a bellwether for the region.
Where Egypt leads, others follow. Under Nasser, Egypt’s political model
was replicated across the region. Syria, for one, was so inspired by Nasser
and his ideas of Arab unity that, for a time, the country joined with Egypt
to form the United Arab Republic (1958–61). The union ultimately failed
when Damascus discovered it was expected to be the junior partner in
the alliance.
Even after the divorce, Syria stayed true to the basic ideas of Nasser’s
Egypt: a military-run state, a regime monopoly of coercive power, a com-
mand economy, a welfare system designed to provide access to services
previously supplied by religious endowments or private patronage, and a
bureaucracy that aimed to absorb as many university graduates and school
leavers as possible. Syria, like Egypt, also steered a foreign policy course
away from the West and turned to the Soviet Union for military assistance.
In return, Moscow achieved its long-held dream of access to a warm-water
port on the Mediterranean in Tartus. Other military states pursued simi-
lar social policies to Nasser. For the oil-rich ones such as Algeria, Iraq,
and Libya, funding public services was a much easier feat than it was for
a country like Egypt. Not only did Egypt lack natural resources, it had a
rapidly growing urban population; all of whom needed jobs.
I AM THE STATE 177
The Arab world’s military states also adopted Egypt’s model of one-
party politics where all political activity was funneled through one state-
sanctioned organization. In Syria and Iraq, it was the Baath (Renaissance)
Party. In Algeria, it was the Front de Libération Nationale (FLN). In
Tunisia, it was the Neo-Destour Party. In Libya, there was no such orga-
nization because Gaddafi insisted he was not actually in charge. He was
the Brother Leader not the president.
Like Egypt, the leaders of the military states (the Brother Leader
included) adopted a cult of personality that cast the head of state as the
protector of the revolution and the embodiment of the nation. This cult
was reflected in the billboard-size posters of the leader in various pater-
nal poses that appeared in every public place. It was also reflected in his
ability to win almost 100 percent of the vote in presidential elections.
(Usually, he was the only candidate.) No other leader, however, managed
to scale the heights of Nasser’s popularity. In spite of the repressive nature
of his regime, Nasser, right to the very end of his time in power, enjoyed
almost god-like adoration from sections of the Egyptian population.
That popularity was one of the reasons he struck fear into the hearts
of the monarchs of the Middle East. They feared Nasser in the same way,
and for the same reason, they fear the democratic mandates won by the
Muslim Brotherhood in elections held since the Arab Spring: it under-
mined their legitimacy and threatened their power.
And their fears were not ungrounded. In Saudi Arabia in 1969, a group
of “Free Officers” (including the king’s personal pilot) were caught plot-
ting to overthrow King Faisal and turn the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia into
a Nasserist-style republic.9 The Kingdom of Morocco narrowly avoided a
similar fate in 1972 when General Oufkir was executed for his part in a
coup attempt against King Hassan II. Not content with punishing the
general, the king took his revenge out on the general’s family. His widow
and six children (one of whom was only a few years old) were held with-
out charge in an underground jail in the desert for nearly 20 years. Their
ordeal only ended when they managed to dig their way out and escape.
The general’s eldest daughter, Malika, recounted the family’s nightmare
in La Prisonnière which became an international bestseller.10
In the 1950s and 1960s, the Arab world divided into two camps: both
were authoritarian but one was radical, revolutionary, and anti-West-
ern; the other was conservative, religious, and pro-Western. When the
Eisenhower Doctrine of January 8, 1957, recognized Communism as the
main threat to the Middle East and offered financial assistance to any-
one fighting it, Nasser saw it as a threat because of his links to the Soviet
Union.11 The monarchies, with their long-established links to the West,
were only too happy to sign up to the Doctrine.
The stage was set for the two camps to clash. The battleground for this
proxy war was Yemen.
In the 1960s, Yemen was a microcosm of the power struggles across the
Middle East. Here, as was the case just about everywhere else, the monar-
chy and the military battled it out for overall control.
Here, too, the imperialist legacy lingered. Yemen in the 1960s was a
country with a complicated history—complicated because the north and
the south had very different historical experiences.
The north of Yemen is rugged, mountainous, and geographically
inaccessible. For that reason, it became home to a Shi‘i family, the
Zaydis, who ruled for an almost unbelievable amount of time— eleven
centuries—from 893 to 1962.12 Their leader did not take the title caliph or
king. Instead, he was an Imam: technically the term for a prayer leader
but in Shi‘ism, a term for political leader too. The Zaydis had first come
to the region during the Abbasid era when it was common for Shi‘i rebels
to flee as far as possible from the central authority in Baghdad. After a
failed rebellion, they would run for their lives and literally keep run-
ning until they ran out of land. That is why there are clusters of Shi‘is in
coastal regions across the Arab world: Hasa on the east coast of Arabia,
Bahrain in the Persian Gulf, northern Yemen on the Red Sea coast, and
Lebanon on the Mediterranean. It was the same story on the southern
shores of the Mediterranean. The Fatimids, who ruled Egypt for two cen-
turies, were Shi‘i, and they launched their invasion of Egypt from their
base in Tunisia.
In contrast to the north, Yemen’s more accessible south, with its
arable land, its long coastline and its strategically well-positioned port
of Aden, caught the eye of empires and, as a result, underwent a more
chequered history. Under the Rasulid dynasty (r. 1229–1454), it became
Sunni. Then, in the sixteenth century the Ottomans arrived. During this
period, Yemen turned into a something akin to a political revolving door.
The Zaydis came back. Then the Ottomans did. Then, in 1839, the British
arrived in the south and, as so often happened when the British turned up
somewhere in the Middle East, they did not leave. Nearly a century later,
in 1937, the south became a crown colony of the British Empire.13
An uneasy division of power prevailed for the first half of the twenti-
eth century. The Zaydis reclaimed the country following the end of the
Ottoman Empire in 1924. But the British, ruling in alliance with local
sultans, remained the real power in the south.
I AM THE STATE 179
In the second half of the twentieth century, everything changed.

Thanks to geography, Yemen’s destiny had long been entwined with
Egypt’s. The Bab al-Mandab strait on Yemen’s south-western coast is the
entry point for shipping routes into the Red Sea from Asia and is one of
global shipping’s chokepoints—so-called because whoever controls it has
the ability to strangle global shipping and cause a global economic crisis.
In 2015, an estimated 40 percent of global trade passes through the pic-
turesquely named Gate of Lamentation. Back in 1956, Britain and France
waged a war over control of the Suez Canal but it does not actually matter
who controls the canal because if the Bab al-Mandab is not open, nothing
is going through from Asia to Europe or from Europe to Asia.
In the 1950s, thanks to Nasser’s vision of Arab unity, Yemen’s destiny
once again became entwined with Egypt’s when Yemen joined the short-
lived United Arab Republic of Egypt and Syria as a federal partner.14
When the Union collapsed, the by-now-predictable happened. A group of
soldiers, tribes, and anyone else opposed to the Imam staged a coup and
brought the one thousand and 69 years of Zaydi rule to an end. North
Yemen became the Yemen Arab Republic and aligned itself ideologically
with Nasser’s Egypt.15 Nasser sent his army to help the republic bed down.
The YAR was radical, republican, and secular. In other words, it was the
complete opposite of its neighbor to the north: the religious, conservative
Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
And the kingdom did not like it one bit. Having one of Nasser’s satel-
lites on its doorstep was too close for comfort. What happened next has
become all too familiar in the region. In one of those strange alliances
of mutual convenience which seem to occur so often in the Middle East
(especially right now) and which have nothing to do with shared ideology
and everything to do with shared interests, Sunni Saudi Arabia sided with
the Shi‘i Zaydis in order to strike at Nasser.
For the next five years, war waged between the new rulers of north
Yemen and the old ones that was really a proxy war between President
Nasser’s Egypt and King Faisal’s Saudi Arabia for control of the Middle
East. The two sides fought to a standstill then withdrew in 1967. Neither
won but both, arguably, lost. In 1967, some of Egypt’s elite troops were
still deployed in Yemen which meant they were not available to fight
in the Six-Day War. Whether they would have made any difference, we
will never know. But, arguably, it was not the wisest military decision for
Egypt to go into battle against a well-trained, well-armed people fighting
for survival with the country’s best troops stationed somewhere else.
As for Faisal, even though the disaster of 1967 was Nasser’s to bear,
events of that year were hardly to his credit. His kingdom was Islam’s
birthplace, home to Mecca and Medina, two of the religion’s Holy Cities,
and it was under his watch that Islam’s third Holy City, Jerusalem, was
lost to Islam. In a bid to bolster their own power at the expense of the
other, this colonel and this king helped create a set of circumstances that
set the Palestinian cause even further back than the Catastrophe of 1948.
Ultimately, Nasser’s brand of revolutionary one-party republican-
ism made more progress in the south of Yemen. In 1962, popular protest
against British rule turned violent with the National Liberation Front
(NLF) at the forefront. In 1967, the same year that the war in the north
ended, the British withdrew from Aden. Events then unfurled in the same
way they had across much of the Arab world: the NLF took control of
the newly named People’s Republic of South Yemen (PRSY) and became
the party of power. Two years later, the PRSY changed names again.
Now ideologically anti-Western and aligned with the Soviet Union, its
new name was the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen (PDRY). The
“democratic” in the title was somewhat ironic: the PDRY was a one-party
state backed up by a strong military.16
The events of 1967 clearly showed how prominent the role of the mili-
tary was in the politics of the Arab world. War was used by kings and
colonels alike as an instrument to achieve a political goal. But events of
this year also showed up one of the most glaring contradictions in the
region’s power structure.
In the postindependence Arab Middle East, the military regimes
placed the army at the center of the state. Nothing in these countries was
more important than the military. Yet, the most highly militarized state
in the entire Middle East, where every adult (male and female) is legally
required to serve at least three years in the armed forces and must carry
out a period of military service every year after that until middle age, did
not become a military state. It became a democracy.
What made the State of Israel different?
This is a highly contentious issue. Not only because it feeds into the wider
Israeli-Palestinian debate but also because Israel’s democratic credentials
are often cited by Israeli politicians as a reason why the West should take
sides in this struggle and support Israel rather than the authoritarian
Arab regimes.17 The issue of democracy has therefore become every bit as
partisan as every other issue in this debate.
But what makes the issue of Israel’s democracy so contentious is that
it is true. Israel, whatever else its critics may throw at it, is a democracy.
Questions may be raised about the nature of that democracy—Arabs in
I AM THE STATE 181
Israel will tell you that they face discrimination in many aspects of life
and that Arab neighborhoods are deliberately underresourced—but the
fact remains that Israeli citizens freely elect their governments and freely
criticize them for their shortcomings. They also freely vote them out.
The debate over Israel’s democracy is further complicated by the issue
of Palestinians who are Israeli citizens. This is because in Israel, they have
access to the kind of open electoral system that does not presently exist
in large parts of the Arab world. For Arabs, it can be emotionally uncom-
fortable to know they have voting rights in the State of Israel that many
of their fellow Arabs do not have in their own countries. The difference
between how Israeli governments treat their Arab citizens and how Arab
regimes treat theirs is then cited by supporters of Israel as further proof of
the country’s democratic credentials and as another reason why the West
should side with Israel.
This viewpoint is then complicated further by the fact that the political
power of Arabs in Israel is growing. They are the descendants of the peo-
ple who lived in the area before 1948 and they now make up over 20 per-
cent of Israel’s population. In the elections on March 17, 2015, they began
to flex their political muscle. Standing as a joint list, the Arab parties
maximized their vote which meant the Zionist parties, from the left and
the right, had to factor them into the political equation for the first time.
Given the fragmented nature of Israeli politics and the near-certainty of
coalition governments—Prime Minister Netanyahu’s Likud Party won
the March 2015 election with less than a quarter of the Knesset’s 120
seats—if the Arab parties continue to cooperate like this, they could end
up having the final say in who forms a future government. Even if they
do not join a governing coalition, they could block one set of parties from
taking power.
But what really makes the whole issue of Israel’s democracy and the
lack of it in Arab states so controversial is what is often implied but
rarely said. In the corridors of power in the West, the question of why
Israel is a democracy when so many Arab countries are not taps into a
deep-seated (but incorrect) cultural assumption that goes back to days
of empire: that Arabs are not wired for democracy. And for “Arabs,”
what is really meant is Islam. That assumption enabled Britain, the
home of parliamentary democracy, and France, the home of revolution-
ary freedom, to subdue large parts of the Arab world and to do it with a
comfortable sense of entitlement and moral superiority. And the suspi-
cion that Islam is somehow incompatible with democracy has lingered.
The actions of groups like ISIL have done nothing to dispel this point of
view. If anything, they have reinforced it and made more people accept
it as true.
Judaism, on the other hand, is viewed differently in the West. It is one

of the paradoxes of Western history that Judaism as a faith was respected
long before the Jews who practiced it were. Western civilization rests on
the twin pillars of the Greek and Hebrew heritage. The Mosaic Law code
is integrated into legal systems across the Western world. The Houses
of Parliament in London have a prominent visual reminder of this in
one of the most important rooms in parliament’s buildings. The Grand
Committee of the House of Lords, which oversees most of the legislation
from the Lords, meets in the Moses Room. There, an entire wall is cov-
ered with a giant mural of Moses bringing the tablets of law down from
the mountain to the Israelites.
With the West taking its inspiration from Judaism in the law, the
assumption followed that since the West is compatible with democracy,
Judaism is too. The same assumption has not been made with Islam. As
a result, Islam, the religion, gets blamed for political problems it neither
created nor sanctioned. Postindependence, power in the Arab world was
seized by soldiers and sheikhs. Yet, as we have seen, this is a state of affairs
not endorsed by the Quran or the Prophet. The Quran does not sanction
hereditary power as a means of rule. Muhammad did not nominate a suc-
cessor. Instead, he left the Muslim community free to decide their own
future. And when he was in charge of that community, he did not govern
through an army. He governed through consensus. Islam is therefore not
theologically inclined toward the patterns of power that have prevailed
across the Arab Middle East after independence—even if, in some cases,
it has been deliberately manipulated to justify them.
Why Israel became a democracy after independence and the Arab
states did not has nothing to do with religion. The answer is really quite
simple. It was a choice. In Israel, the people in a position of power after
independence chose to make their country a democracy. In the Arab
world, the people in a position of power made a different choice.
The Israelis then built up the institutions necessary to support their
state and developed the democratic processes to sustain them. This led to
an entirely different relationship between the citizen and the state than
the relationship that occurred in the Arab world. This, in turn, affected
all aspects of life in Israel, creating a culture of openness that, over time,
laid the groundwork for research and development to take off in a way
that did not happen elsewhere in the Middle East. The knock-on effect on
the Israeli economy has been considerable. The modern Israeli tech sec-
tor, a global leader in its field, is an example of that openness.
However, the most marked example of the different relationship
between the citizen and the state in Israel than that in the Arab states is the
military. Because the Israel Defense Force (IDF) is essentially a conscript
I AM THE STATE 183
army, it belongs to the people of Israel, rather than the state, in a way
that professional armies do not. It also means that whoever is running
the state cannot take advantage of the army to achieve a political agenda
against the wishes of the people. All of that critically alters the balance of
power between the state, the people and the army, in favor of the people.
In Israel, the people are the army and the state works for them.
That is not the case in the Arab military republics. There, the army is
the state and the state works for the army. The people are left out of the
equation. It is not the case in the kingdoms either. There, too, the military’s
role is to maintain the status quo. And as the Arab Spring has shown, that
can mean deploying troops over the border to help a fellow king quash
popular protest and stay in power against the wishes of his people.
The key question, then, is why did Chaim Weizmann, the first presi-
dent of Israel, and David Ben-Gurion, the first prime minister, along with
those around them, take the decision to democratize when the Arab kings
and colonels did not?
The majority of the first generation of Israeli politicians came from
Russia. (Future prime minister Golda Meir, born in the United States,
was an exception.) Many of them were involved in antitsarist politics and
the experience of growing up under an authoritarian regime profoundly
shaped their political thinking. Having escaped such despotism, they had
no wish to revisit it in their Promised Land. What, instead, they brought
with them to the Middle East was the political affiliations they had back
in Russia. Before Israel even existed, the Jewish settlers in Palestine were
already espousing multiparty politics.
Jewish history also played a role. Not only the experience of the
Holocaust but the fact that Jews had so long been on the other side of
power. In Europe, they were obliged to campaign for a citizenship that
was granted without question to others born in the same country. Even in
the Islamic world where Jews enjoyed legal protection from persecution,
they were still not full citizens. None of this—not the persecution or the
second-class status—was an experience any of them wanted to go through
again. The whole point of having their own country was to make their
own rules. That ambition to leave the past behind and to live freely, along
with the inbuilt suspicion of authority that had developed over so many
centuries as outsiders, pointed Israel toward an open political system.18
The prestate organizations of the Yishuv gave them the means to start
building the independent institutions of the State. These bodies already
had elective leadership structures in place and that pattern was carried
through into the state-building period.19
This is not to say that the State of Israel became an egalitarian Utopia.
Aside from the ever-present security situation and the issues associated
with it, Israel is socially divided between Ashkenazi and Sephardi, with
the Ashkenazim dominating the top jobs in politics and the professions.
It is something of an irony that Britain has had a Sephardi prime minister
whereas Israel still has not. In the early years of the state, newly arrived
Sephardim from Morocco or Iraq were settled in kibbutzim near the bor-
der with Lebanon or in the middle of the Negev desert—places where
Ashkenazim did not always want to go.
And politics was not just dominated by the Ashkenazim. It was domi-
nated by one party: Labor. It was not until 1977 that politics opened out
and the Likud Party first formed a government and Menachem Begin
became prime minister. Part of his success was due to his ability to
reach out to Sephardi voters. It is a trend his fellow Likudnik, Binyamin
Netanyahu, has continued and with the same degree of success.
If these are the reasons Israel went down the democratic path, why,
then, did leaders like Egypt’s Colonel Nasser and Jordan’s King Hussein
do the opposite?
It came down to how they achieved power. Bestselling Egyptian novel-
ist Alaa al-Aswany neatly encapsulates the problem of power in the Arab
world when he says that it is the way a ruler comes to power that will
determine how he exercises it.20
The Arab rulers, kings and colonels alike, did not come to power
through an election so they did not stay in power that way. They took
power by shutting the people out of the equation and, ultimately, they
ended up keeping it that way.
18
The Problem of Absolute

Power: From Stability
to Stagnation
A bsolute power leaves no aspect of life untouched. In authoritarian

societies, power becomes the end and the means to the end. The
result is that everything in the public arena is manipulated toward main-
taining the status quo. This leads to a form of political stability that is so
stultifying, it might be more appropriate to call it stagnation.
The statistics say it all. A typical example is the Hashemite Kingdom
of Jordan. From 1946, the year Jordan became a kingdom, to the present,
only four men have ruled the country: King Abdullah (ruled until 1951),
King Talal (r. 1951–2), King Hussein, (r. 1952–99), and King Abdullah II
(r. 1999–).
To put this in context, when King Hussein succeeded his father in
1952, Harry S. Truman was President of the United States. By the time
Abdullah II succeeded Hussein in 1999, a further nine men had served as
president (three of whom, Dwight S. Eisenhower, Ronald Reagan, and Bill
Clinton, were two-term presidents).1
Morocco has had even less political churn than Jordan. Since indepen-
dence in 1956, the country has had only three rulers: King Muhammad V
(ruled until 1961), King Hassan II (r. 1961–99), and King Muhammad VI
(r. 1999–). The average reign of a Moroccan king is almost five times the
length of an American presidency.
The monarchy with the lowest churn of all is Oman where the average
reign of a sultan is equivalent to ten American presidential terms. The
present sultan, Qabus, has been in power since 1970. He succeeded his
father, Said, who ruled for 38 years (1932–70).
Longevity in power (or presidents-for-life) is also a feature of politics

in the republics. Egypt’s Nasser was president for 16 years (1954–70),
Tunisia’s Ben Ali for 23 (1987–2010), and Syria’s Asad for 29 (1971–2000).
Libya’s Brother Leader Gaddafi topped this list with his quite staggering
42 years in power (1969–2011).
At the start of the twenty-first century, a whole new twist on power
took place in the Arab world when presidents began acting like kings. It
started in Syria where, centuries earlier, the hereditary principle was first
introduced to Islamic politics. The Syrian political model shared many
characteristics with other republican regimes across the Arab world and,
in this instance, where Syria led, others would soon follow.
As he neared the end of his life, President Hafiz al-Asad took steps
to ensure that his son Bashar succeeded him. Bashar was not originally
intended for this role. As the second son, he was allowed to pursue the
career of his choice (he was an ophthalmologist) and it was his older
brother Basil who went into the military as preparation for the presi-
dency. In a military republic like Syria, time in a uniform was an essen-
tial stepping stone on the way to power. When Basil was killed in a car
accident in January 1994, Bashar was recalled from his studies in London
and fast-tracked through the military ranks. It was never publicly stated
that he was the successor son but when posters began to appear all over
Syria of the father and the son together, Syrians would have understood
the message.
Article 83 of the Syrian constitution stated that any candidate for pres-
ident had to be at least 40 years old. In June 2000, just before Hafiz died,
that age was reduced to 34 which, conveniently, happened to be Bashar’s
age. The amendment to the constitution not only facilitated the passage
of power from father to son, but also meant that the father’s final act as
president (and the one that shaped the son’s presidency) was an unadul-
terated act of power. The power of the Asad family, and the clique-elite
of soldiers, family members, in-laws and members of the Alawi sect who
backed them, was projected far into the future. With Bashar at the helm,
their influence, wealth, and power were secured.
Syria, once one of the most radical states in the Middle East, had
become a jamlaka. Not a republic ( jumhuriyya) or a kingdom (mamlaka),
a whole new word had to be invented to describe a republic that acted like
royalty and a president who ruled like a king.2 In this new system, the
people were—yet again—shut out of power and the gap between the ruler
and the ruled remained as wide as ever.
All of which raises the question of what happened to Hafiz al-Asad, a
military-president in Nasser’s mold who took power in a coup, during his
three decades as president that he ended up becoming as royal as the royals?
THE PROBLEM OF ABSOLUTE POWER 187
It is a cliché to say that absolute power corrupts absolutely but clichés

have a certain truth. During Hafiz al-Asad’s three decades in power, he
was ruthless in crushing any opposition to his rule. As was the case with
the ruling class across the Arab Middle East, Asad tolerated no dissent.
Once the initial period of postindependence excitement passed in the
military republics and hard political and economic realities kicked in, the
early populism that was used to legitimize power gave way to increasing
repression. Regimes became less interested in legitimizing power than in
exercising it. People regularly disappeared in the night. Political oppo-
nents were detained without trial for years. Torture was routine. In Syria,
even Hafiz al-Asad’s own brother Rifat was not spared his wrath when the
president thought Rifat had conspired against him when he was incapaci-
tated by a heart attack in 1983. Rifat was lucky to escape with his life but
spent years in exile.
Rifat’s fate, however, pales in comparison to the horror that hap-
pened in Hama the year before. The city’s famous waterwheel was said
to have run red with blood after Asad’s crackdown against the Muslim
Brotherhood in 1982. To this day, no one knows how many people were
killed by Asad’s army of Alawi militias. (Rifat had played a key role in this
crackdown. He was on the ground directing the militias on his brother’s
behalf.) The figure most often cited is twenty thousand, but the exact fig-
ure may be more. After the crackdown, even belonging to the Muslim
Brotherhood became a capital offence.
In these circumstances, where there is no check or balance on a presi-
dent’s power, no one to challenge or criticize him, no limit to his length
of time in office, power develops an almost drug-like dynamic of its own.
To keep the current system in place and protect the privileges that go with
it becomes the only goal. And those privileges are considerable. Because
of the president’s monopoly on coercive power and his ability to elimi-
nate or silence dissent, every part of national life is under his control. The
entire economy is at his disposal. In Syria, that wealth has been used to
enrich family members (Hafiz’s in-laws the Makhlufs are said to have a
fortune running into the billions) and to reward supporters (retired cabi-
net members and army generals are often pensioned off with lucrative
defense contracts).3
The use of public money in this way has a distorting influence on the
economy and institutionalizes corruption. It privileges defense spending
above all other areas—in Syria, for example, nearly half the budget is ear-
marked for defense4—and leaves other sectors of the economy suffering
from chronic underinvestment. It also has huge social implications. Just
as the gap between people and power has widened since independence in
the Arab world, so too has the gap between rich and poor. The rich have
consistently become richer because the ruling elite have used their politi-
cal power to, effectively, asset-strip their own country.
The longer this system lasts, the more reluctant the beneficiaries are to
lose it. Partly for the obvious reasons of self-interest but partly, too, from
fear: a new political dispensation will, in all likelihood, call the old regime
to account. In these circumstances, the confiscation of assets would be
the least of their worries. This is where the idea of a scorched earth policy
kicks in. In the event of a rebellion or uprising, the old guard calculate
that it is better to dig in, defend their ground and take the risk of hanging
together rather than conceding defeat and hanging separately. In order
to avoid this scenario ever happening, it becomes a political necessity to
keep power in the hands of the old guard. And as the Umayyad caliph
Muawiya discovered in the seventh century, the best way to maintain the
status quo and project the privileges of the present into the future is to
create a ruling family with a loyal militia to protect it.
As far as ruling families are concerned, there is no shortage of them in

the Middle East. For the nearest example, all Hafiz al-Asad had to do was
look to his Jordanian neighbor where the passage of power from father to
son had taken place with effortless ease in 1999. (And this smooth tran-
sition happened in spite of the potential disharmony within the family
after King Hussein sacked his brother Hassan, the long-serving Crown
Prince, at the last minute to make way for his son Abdullah.)
In his book The Rise and Fall of Arab Presidents for Life, Harvard
Professor Roger Owen talks of a phenomenon in the Arab world which he
calls the “demonstration effect.”5 Because Arab heads of state meet on such
a regular basis at summit conferences of organizations like the League of
Arab States (and, to a lesser extent, the Gulf Cooperation Council) and
issue joint communiqués stating a common position on many issues, a
certain “clubbiness” has developed amongst them, regardless of whether
their countries are conservative kingdoms or a military republics.6 The
challenges these leaders face are common enough to warrant a common
approach. Hence “the demonstration effect”: i.e. what works for the ruler
of one country might very well work for the ruler of another.
In these circumstances, political models of republicanism or royalty,
and political ideologies of religion or revolution, are less relevant than
results. And it becomes possible for a republican president to appropri-
ate the structural stability of a monarchical system to achieve his own
ambitions.
There was another reason why, at the start of the twenty-first century,
Hafiz al-Asad and other presidents in the region—Gaddafi in Libya,
Mubarak in Egypt, Saddam Hussein in Iraq, Ali Abdullah Saleh in
Yemen—were looking to turn their republics into quasi-monarchies. In
the ideological battle that waged between the military republics and the
conservative kingdoms postindependence—a battle typified by events in
Yemen in the 1960s—the kingdoms won.
The Six-Day War was a disaster for Nasser. As a veteran of the 1948 war,
Palestine was an issue close to his heart. The manner of the defeat in 1967
was not just a political humiliation to him; it affected him very deeply on
a personal level too. In military terms, the war could not have been worse
for the Arab armies. Not only did the Israeli military successfully repel
invasion on three fronts, they took huge swathes of territory from Egypt
(the Sinai peninsula), Jordan (the West Bank including Jerusalem), and
Syria (the Golan Heights). Right to the end, Egyptians were kept in the
dark about the extent of Arab losses because state-controlled media gave
misleading reports about how the war was proceeding.
The defeat would have been difficult for any Arab leader to bear. For
Nasser and the ideology he espoused, it signaled the beginning of the end.
The Cairo crowds would not accept his resignation. To do so, in their
eyes, would have meant yet another victory for Israel. But after 1967,
Nasser was never the same. His health suffered and his political credibil-
ity was irreparably damaged. The war had revealed the limits of his politi-
cal vision. His was a military state that could not win wars. Since 1948,
the Palestinians had been desperately hoping for rescue from the uncer-
tainty of their situation. And many of them hoped Nasser, as the leader of
the Arab world, could provide it. Psychologically, as well as territorially,
Palestinians had been living in limbo for nearly two decades: almost as
if what had happened to them could not have been real. After 1967, there
was no denying that Israel was a reality. And there was no denying that
the Arab states, led by Nasser, had not been able to do anything about it.
This realization led to a number of political realignments and much
soul searching across the Arab world. This was the moment the bal-
ance of power tipped toward the oil-rich ruling families in the Gulf.
This was when Palestinians started looking to the Palestine Liberation
Organization (PLO) to represent their interests. Many people in the Arab
world also looked in a new direction for an answer. For both solace and a
political alternative, large numbers now turned to Islam.
Nasser died in 1970 and was succeeded by his long-time associate and
fellow soldier Anwar Sadat. From the moment Sadat took office, his goal
was to reclaim Sinai and to restore Arab honor. To that end, all Arab
assets were marshaled. On the battleground, it did not ultimately make
much difference. Egypt’s initial success in crossing the Suez Canal during
the war in 1973 was soon wiped out by an Israeli counter-attack which left
Egypt’s Third Army trapped on the east of the canal.7
But this war is remembered just as much, if not more, for events which
occurred away from the battlefield. Prior to the war, Sadat built alliances
that cut across the monarchy-military divide in the Arab world with the
result that the 1973 war saw the oil card played for the first (and only)
time. The oil embargo by the Gulf states against Western countries who
supported Israel was brief but effective. It pushed the price of oil through
the roof, introduced price instability into the market, and set Saudi Arabia
on the way to becoming the wealthiest country in the world.
After the war, Sadat made a separate peace deal with Israel which
enabled him to achieve his goal of reclaiming Sinai. Israel also achieved a
number of strategic objectives after the war. Sadat’s controversial visit to
Israel on November 8, 1977, and the US-brokered Camp David Accords
in 1978 that led to the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty in March 1979 secured
recognition for Israel from an Arab neighbor and led to the establishment
of diplomatic relations between the two countries. For Israel, it meant the
country’s southern border was secure because Egypt was legally bound to
stay out of any future Arab conflict with Israel.
While Sadat and Israel gained what they wanted from the diplomacy
after the war and the oil-rich kingdoms gained from the spike in oil prices
after the embargo, it is hard to see what the Palestinians gained from
October 1973. The West Bank, the Gaza Strip, and the Golan Heights
were still occupied. The refugees from 1948 were still refugees. The essen-
tial problem was still unresolved.
In this way, 1973 was something of a watershed. Palestine was an issue
that united Arabs across the world. Before 1967, they looked to the lead-
ers of the Arab world to do something about it. For many of those leaders,
most notably Nasser, Palestine was a critical part of their political agenda.
Events of 1967 changed that agenda. And events of 1973 confirmed that
change. The war of 1967 was fought to reclaim Palestine. The war of 1973
had much narrower goals. For Arab leaders, Palestine had gone from a
cause to a slogan. They were happy to use it as a legitimizing device for
their own power—opposing Israel and supporting the Palestinians was
something everyone could agree on, rulers and ruled alike—but after
1973, there was no sustained effort to address the problem in a way that
would put pressure on Israel or Israel’s Western backers to resolve it.
Every so often, there would be vast injections of cash from oil-rich
states to Palestinian organizations and proposals like the Arab Peace
Initiative suggested by Saudi Arabia’s King Abdullah, under which Arab
states would recognize Israel in return for Israeli withdrawal from the
Occupied Territories. But there was no concerted effort to deploy the

diplomatic and commercial assets of the Arab world to help Palestinians
achieve their own state. The Gulf Arab states controlled the supply of the
commodity upon which the Western economy depended yet they never
played the oil card again. Instead, every Arab state concentrated on look-
ing after their own interests and those states with economic and com-
mercial links with the West had no intention of risking those investments
for the Palestinians.
The reason Arab leaders were able to behave this way is the same rea-
son they were able to exercise power so absolutely: the enormous gap
between power and the people meant the powerful did not have to take
the wishes of their people into consideration. If the leaders of the Arab
world had to renew their right to rule every four years at the ballot box,
they almost certainly would have done something to help the Palestinians
because their people would have demanded it.
From the 1970s onwards, Palestine became useful for Arab leaders as a
tool to rally the masses and to deflect internal criticism of their own fail-
ings. But Palestine was not their priority. The presidents of the military
republics were more concerned with cementing their own authority fol-
lowing the fall of their hero Nasser.
As for the conservative kingdoms, they were about to find themselves
facing a new and much more dangerous threat: one that they still have not
found a way to deal with. In 1979, a new battle began: the battle over who
speaks for Islam.
PartV
The Sacred Versus the

Secular: Who Speaks
for Islam?
19
Mecca: Tuesday,
November 20, 1979
I t was the first day of a new year. In fact, it was the first day of a new
century. In the Islamic calendar, November 20, 1979, corresponded to
the first day of the month of Muharram, 1400. And for a few hundred
men and women gathered in the Holiest Mosque in the Holiest City of
Islam, this day was to be the start of a new era. They were going to bring
down the Saudi ruling family and establish a new Islamic order.
The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was established in 1932 but the Saudi
family’s rule went back much further than that. In 1744, Muhammad ibn
Saud was amir of a small oasis named Diriyya in the center of Arabia. He
was not one of the most important tribal sheikhs in the region but that
year, he made an alliance with a reformist preacher that would change
history and set his family on the path to power and wealth. The preacher’s
name was Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab and his teachings called for a
return to an Islam purified of any innovations (bida) added to the religion
since the Prophet’s death.
This stripped-down, austere, iconoclastic brand of Islam banned a mot-
ley array of activities. Pastimes as diverse as visiting the graves of saints,
smoking, tambourine-playing (or music of any kind), to wearing silk: in
short, everything that Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab believed had not
been part of the Prophet’s life. His narrow interpretation of the faith is a
long way from the cosmopolitan, engaging, and free-thinking Islam that
gave birth to one of the greatest civilizations the world has ever known.
A reflection of the harsh desert environment where it is was born;
this version of Islam became known as Wahhabism. As well as banning
anything it considered an innovation, Wahhabism espoused a particular
dislike of Sufism and Shi‘ism and called for jihad against non-Muslims
and militant action against any Muslims who did not follow Wahhabi
teachings.1 In other words, Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab used his
preaching to give himself—and whoever backed him—the exclusive right

to speak for Islam. This same sense of exclusivity, together with the call
for jihad against non-believers and the right to act against any Muslims
who disagreed with them, would later be claimed by extremist groups
such as al-Qaida and ISIL whose narrow view of Islam was greatly influ-
enced by Wahhabi teachings.
Many tribal leaders in Arabia disapproved of these teachings but, in
1744, Muhammad ibn Saud recognized that an alliance with the preacher
would give him a religious legitimacy he otherwise lacked. Together, they
would conquer with the sword in one hand and the Quran in the other.
Muhammad ibn Saud gave the Wahhabi preacher shelter in his oasis and
so began the Saudi-Wahhabi alliance that is now into its third century. In
a new twist on the monarchy-military alliances of old, the Saudi family
would rule, their tribal allies would support that rule, and Muhammad
ibn Abd al-Wahhab would sanctify it. In return, the Wahhabi preacher
was given complete freedom over the religious agenda in any of territo-
ries the Saudis conquered. The relationship between the two families was
then sealed by marriage. King Faisal’s side of the family (which includes
the former long-serving Foreign Minister Saud al-Faisal) is both Saudi
and Wahhabi.
The alliance worked well for both parties. The puritan simplicity of the
Wahhabi message and its uncompromising insistence on tawhid (unity of
God) resonated with some of the nomadic tribes and settled communities
in the isolated areas of central Arabia. It found less support in the cities of
the Hijaz where life was lived at a different pace.
By the early nineteenth century, the Saudi family and their supporters
had gained so much territory that they were in control of the Holy Cities
in the west and were challenging Ottoman control of Basra in modern-
day Iraq. It took an invasion force from Egypt led by Muhammad Ali’s
son to halt the Saudi advance and end the threat to Ottoman sover-
eignty in the heart of Islam. The day of the Saudi surrender in 1818 was
a date that would, two centuries on, become famous the world over:
September 11. The defeated Saudi amir, Abdullah, was sent to Istanbul
where he was beheaded.
But the Saudis were nothing if not resilient. The rest of the family
lived to fight another day and, as the nineteenth century progressed, they
were, once again, in charge of large parts of Arabia. When that period of
rule was brought to an end in 1891 by the rival Rashidi family, the Saudis
were still not finished. In 1902, Abd al-Aziz (better known as Ibn Saud)
returned from exile in Kuwait, reclaimed the Saudi stronghold of Riyadh,
and began to build the third Saudi state: the one that would culminate in
the kingdom established in 1932 and is named after his family.
MECCA: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1979 197
It was this family and this state which the rebels in Mecca aimed to
destroy. The rebel movement was led by a charismatic preacher named
Juhayman ibn Muhammad al-Utaybi and his brother-in-law Muhammad
ibn Abdullah al-Qahtani. Religion and rebellion were in Juhayman’s
blood. His grandfather was a member of the Ikhwan, or Brotherhood,
who were once the backbone of the army of Ibn Saud, the founder of the
third Saudi state and the country’s first king. The Ikhwan were warriors
who could strike the fear of God into their opponents. People often ran at
the sound of their approach rather than risk the consequences of staying
to face them. It was thanks to their ferocity and unwavering loyalty that
Ibn Saud was able to see off his rivals, concentrate power in his hands and
begin the process of state creation.
But, in the late 1920s, the Ikhwan’s loyalty wavered. They did not like
the state Ibn Saud was creating and they objected openly to some of his
policies. They did not approve of his treaty with the British. They did not
think kingship was Islamic. And they strongly disapproved of Ibn Saud’s
indulgent lifestyle and multiple marriages.2
They rebelled. Ultimately, to no avail. Ibn Saud understood only too
well that a ruler was nothing without a loyal army and he brought in
fighters from the Najd province, the Saudi heartland in central Arabia, to
stop the rebellion. Juhayman’s grandfather was killed fighting against Ibn
Saud’s forces in the Battle of Sabila in 1929. 3 Juhayman was born ten years
later in the Qasim province in what had once been an Ikhwan settlement.
He grew up hearing stories of the Ikhwan’s glory days and of the doomed
rebellion that put an end to the movement. As an adult, he joined the
National Guard where he reached the rank of corporal. But he seemed to
feel something was missing in his life and in his early thirties, after over
a decade in the National Guard, he made an abrupt career change and
enrolled at the Islamic University in the Holy City of Medina in 1972.4
The Islamic University was more than a theological college. Part of the
university’s remit was to train the religious establishment of the future.
The division of power between religion and politics worked out between
the Saudis and the Wahhabis in the middle of the eighteenth century still
held firm. The Saudi family controlled the political arena. The religious
preachers controlled the social space. It was the preachers who interpreted
the religious law (the sharia) and the religious police who enforced it. By
ceding so much of the public arena to the religious establishment, the
Saudis ensured their support for the status quo.
The atmosphere at the university was heavily influenced by the politi-
cal thinking of Egypt’s Muslim Brothers. During the 1960s when Nasser’s
crackdown against the Muslim Brothers went into overdrive, King Faisal
offered sanctuary to many Brothers fleeing Egypt. He saw it as a way to
use Islam to undermine Nasser. He even went as far as to object to the

death sentence given to Sayyid Qutb in August 1966 and called for Nasser
to show clemency.5 The university was set up to rival Cairo’s famous seat
of religious learning, the Azhar.6 (One of those given refuge in the king-
dom was Sayyid Qutb’s brother Muhammad. He taught at universities in
the kingdom where one of his students was a young Osama bin Laden.)7
King Faisal’s policy proved to be something of a double-edged sword.
During Juhayman’s time at the university, he took his studies very seri-
ously. The Muslim Brothers believed that religion and politics were one
and the same and, with that in mind, Juhayman looked at the Saudi state
and came to the same conclusion that his grandfather’s generation of
Ikhwan had come to 50 years earlier: that the Saudi state had not quite
turned out the way its most loyal supporters had hoped it would. At the
highest levels of power, there appeared to be a gap between Islam as it was
preached and Islam as it was practiced.
Juhayman did not keep his views to himself and, as a result, he was
expelled from the university in 1974.8 For the next few years, he wandered
in the wilderness, preaching and publishing religious texts which gained
him a reputation for piety among like-minded men and women. His writ-
ings on religion also attracted the attention of the Saudi security forces.
He was arrested and detained for a brief period in 1978 but ultimately
released without charge.9
His message continued to resonate, however. Saudi Arabia at this time
was a country full of contradictions and those contradictions were cre-
ating a deep sense of social angst in some quarters. Thanks to the oil
embargo, the kingdom was fabulously wealthy. But it was a change that
happened almost overnight in a place that was chronically underdevel-
oped and culturally behind the times. Women of any age needed a male
guardian. The economy was suddenly awash with petrodollars and devel-
opment took place at breakneck speed. That development was uneven
and many in the kingdom did not feel they benefited from it.
Estimates suggest that oil revenues rose from US $1.2 billion in 1970 to
US $22.5 billion in 1974. By the end of the 1970s that figure had quadru-
pled.10 The state lacked the mechanisms or the infrastructure to absorb all
that money. The 1970s therefore saw an influx of Western companies and
workers into the kingdom who, attracted by generous tax-free incomes
and the sort of salaries they could never expect to earn at home, came to
fill the skills gaps in the labor market. To descendants of the Ikhwan like
Juhayman, the arrival of so many Westerners was proof the Saudis were
too closely allied with, and too reliant on, infidel foreigners.
The presence of Westerners on sacred Islamic soil also tapped into the
thorny issue of whether non-Muslims should be allowed to live in the
MECCA: TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1979 199
Islamic Holy Land. Some religious authorities cite the hadith (saying) of
the Prophet—“There can be no two religions in Arabia”—as proof Arabia
should be for Muslims only.11 Other authorities limit this prescription
to the Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina. For anyone already inclined
to question the regime’s religious credentials, the arrival of the Western
work force added to their belief that the Saudis had travelled a long way
from their Wahhabi origins.
The 1970s also saw a rise in conspicuous consumption among the
ruling class. Grand palace complexes were built at home and members
of the ruling family were often spotted living the high life abroad.12 To
Juhayman and those like him, this gap between how the Saudi family
ruled in public and how they lived in private was proof of their moral and
financial corruption. In their eyes, the family had lost their right to rule.
In the early hours of November 20, 1979, Juhayman al-Utaybi launched
his rebellion against the Saudi regime by taking over the Grand Mosque
in Mecca. The annual pilgrimage had just ended and the Mosque was still
full of pilgrims who had yet to return home. A mosque might not seem
the most obvious place to start a revolution—the French started theirs by
storming a prison; the Russians by storming a parliament—but Juhayman
knew his history. Throughout the Islamic era, Mecca had often been the
scene of rebellions against the ruling elite. The Holy City is the direction
of prayer and the destination of pilgrimage. The pilgrimage is the fifth
and final pillar of the faith and it is the responsibility of whoever controls
Mecca to make sure that obligation can be fulfilled. From a rebel’s point
of view, it is the perfect place to attack a ruler’s religious legitimacy and
undermine his political credibility.
Furthermore, the pilgrimage is great cover for a conspiracy because it
is almost impossible to police. Juhayman and his followers took advan-
tage of the freedom of movement it offered and gathered in Mecca under
the guise of pious pilgrims. No one in power suspected a thing.
The rebellion presented the Saudis with a dilemma. To end it, they
would have to send troops into the Grand Mosque. But the Quran prohib-
its fighting in the Haram al-Sharif. How, then, were they to end an armed
rebellion and avoid fighting in the sacred enclosure?
The religious establishment came to their rescue. Fighting was indeed
banned in the precincts of the Grand Mosque but Quran 2: 191 states: “Do
not fight them at the Sacred Mosque until they fight you there. If they
fight you, kill them. Such is the reward of unbelievers.”13 As the Saudis
had not started the violence, the religious establishment deemed any
action on their part to be in line with this verse.
In the battle for public opinion, the Saudi rulers were helped by the
unlikeliest of sources: the rebels themselves. There was much public
disquiet about the decision to use the Grand Mosque as a platform for
revolution. Even among people who agreed with the rebels’ analysis
that the Saudis were corrupt. Graffiti scrawled in the toilets of Riyadh
University months after the revolt summed up this feeling: “Juhayman,
our martyr, why didn’t you storm the palaces?”14 King Khaled himself
apparently acknowledged this point of view. He reportedly told foreign
visitors weeks after the siege that Juhayman might have had more luck
with the public if he had attacked his palace instead of the Mosque.15
Then there was the controversial issue of the Mahdi. As soon as
Juhayman launched the rebellion, he declared his brother-in-law
Muhammad al-Qahtani to be the Mahdi, the one who guides. In Islamic
religious thought, the Mahdi is a Messianic figure who will usher in an
era of divinely guided justice. But the Mahdi is a figure more common
in Shi‘i thinking. Saudi Arabia, by contrast, is predominantly Sunni.
The rebel leader’s decision to promote his brother-in-law as a Shi‘i-style
redeemer did not go down well with the Saudi public.
The rebels held out for two weeks. By December 3, it was all over.
The Saudis, assisted by a commando unit from the French Groupe
d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale (GIGN) brought the crisis
to an end. According to some reports, they flooded the Grand Mosque’s
underground passages with water and dropped electricity charges into
them. One newspaper report described the rebels as “floating out like
kippers.”16 Rebels, pilgrims, and members of the security forces were
among the dead. The Mahdi was killed and Juhayman soon would be. He
and 62 of the rebels were publicly beheaded in January 1980.17
The Saudi ruling family were consummate political survivors and they
had survived yet again. But the rebellion rattled them. On a very pub-
lic level, it revealed all was not well in the kingdom. Saudi Arabia had
become a contradiction: a rapidly modernizing country with a medieval
power structure and the cracks were beginning to show. The endorse-
ment the ruling family received from the religious establishment was no
longer enough to bridge the gap between power and the people. If any-
thing, the reverse was happening: pious young Saudis were turning away
from the official line and rediscovering Islam on their own terms. The
Saudis might still claim to speak for Islam but, after 1979, it was clear that
not everyone in the kingdom agreed with them.
This was not the only challenge the Saudi family faced. Someone else
in the Islamic world was trying to claim the exclusive right to speak for
Islam. As the siege unfolded in Mecca, another siege in another Muslim
city was gripping the world’s attention. On November 4, Iranian stu-
dents stormed the US embassy in Tehran. Ayatollah Khomeini’s Islamic
Revolution was underway.
20
1979: The View from

Tehran
Iran has long occupied a unique place in the region.

The country has a history of going its own way. It was one of the few
places conquered by the Arab armies in the seventh century that kept its
sense of national identity after the conquest in 640. Unlike the countries
of what we now call the Arab world, Iran was conquered by Islam but not
by Arabic. Mindful of their illustrious past as one of the greatest powers
on the planet, Iranians held fast to their national language Persian and,
as a result, Iran never became part of the Arab world. Nor did it become a
part of the Middle East (it is too far away).
Iran’s tendency to take a different path from the rest of the region
extended into religion. Under the Safavid dynasty (r. 1501–1722), Iran
became the first part of the Muslim world to become a Shi‘i state. And
it was not simply a case of a Shi‘i elite ruling over Sunni masses, as hap-
pened under the Fatimids in Egypt. In Iran, Shi‘ism struck roots across
society. Ruler and ruled alike adopted it.
In 1979, Iran again set off in a different direction from the rest of the
region. While power in the Arab world was split between the military and
the monarchies, Iran opted for something entirely different. In April 1979,
in a decision that had been approved by 98.2 percent of the voting public
in a referendum the previous month, Iran became an Islamic Republic.1
Tehran was on its way to becoming a theocracy.
So, how and why did Iran take such a radically different course from the
kingdoms and the military republics of the Arab world?
In theory, the structure of power in Iran before 1979 was not so differ-
ent from the structure of power in the Arab countries. After the collapse
of the centralized caliphate, Iran like the rest of the region experienced
rule by one family after another. And as was the case in the rest of the
region, these were families who wielded absolute power for very long peri-
ods of time, usually until another family with a better army came along
and ousted them. The two centuries of Safavid family rule, for example,
were ended by the Qajar family who, in turn, ruled for well over a century
(1794 to 1925).
The twentieth-century way for a ruling family in the Middle East to
lose power was through a military coup. Here too, Iran was no different
from the rest of the region. Qajar rule was brought to an end in 1925 by
a colonel in the Cossack Brigade. In February 1921, Colonel Reza Khan
staged a coup and began the process of concentrating power in his own
hands. The Qajar Shah, Ahmad, remained in office but not in power.
Four years later, Reza Khan had accumulated enough power to oust him,
make himself Shah, and launch the Pahlavi dynasty that would last until
the revolution in 1978.
Imperialism was a factor in much of the Arab world and Iran, too,
was affected by it. The country was never fully occupied by an outside
power but, like its Arab neighbors, Iran did not escape colonial med-
dling in its affairs. It was not just the country’s potential oil reserves
that attracted the interest of the Great Powers. It was geography. Iran
lay on the land route to India. Britain’s imperial obsession had long been
to secure every possible route to India and London wanted to control
Tehran (or to control whoever controlled Tehran). In Iran, Britain’s
main rival was Russia and Russia’s imperial obsession was its long-
standing need to access warm water. Landlocked on its long southern
border, Russia’s strategy was to push west into the Mediterranean and
south towards the Indian Ocean.
Much of the rivalry between Britain and Russia in Iran was economic:
the two even indulged in a battle of the banks; each one setting up a rival
bank to try and consolidate their grip on Iran’s economy at the expense
of the other.2
An incident in 1890 showed how imperialism worked in Iran and how
the Iranian people responded to it. Significantly, it also revealed an alter-
native power bloc to the monarchy and the military. In 1890, Shah Nasir
al-Din (r. 1848–96) gave a British businessman a 50-year monopoly on
the Iranian tobacco industry. The terms of the deal included production
and retail of the crop as well as rights over its import and export. It was a
license to print money. The businessman sold the concession to Britain’s
Imperial Tobacco Company. 3
THE VIEW FROM TEHRAN 203
Iran’s merchant community, based in the bazaars, were in uproar over

the concession. It cut them out of the market. It threatened their liveli-
hoods. It handed the profits of this lucrative trade to foreigners. For help,
the bazaaris turned to the religious establishment. The religious scholars
(ulama) responded by using their influence to ban the use of tobacco. The
leading Shi‘i cleric, Mirza Hussein Shirazi, went so far as to issue a fatwa
against tobacco.4
In this battle between the king and the clerics, the clerics won. In the
face of such widespread protest, Shah Nasir al-Din had to rescind the
tobacco concession. Although many of the senior clerics lived outside
Iran in the Holy Cities of southern Iraq, the tobacco protest showed they
were more in touch with the concerns of ordinary people of Iran than the
Shah was.
During the crisis, the clerics had proved themselves remarkably astute
in marshalling the power of religion to help the businessmen in the bazaar.
This would prove critical in the years ahead, especially during the Islamic
Revolution. The bazaar was more than a place of business; it was all of
society in microcosm. The alliance between the mosque and the market
was, therefore, much more than an alliance between faith and finance. It
was a building block for the clerics to take a more active political role in
society. Added to this was the legitimacy they derived from being so far
from official power. That distance from power, both geographically and
politically, made them immune to the ups and downs of the Shah’s for-
tunes and consolidated their credibility as an alternative powerbase. As
outsiders, they questioned what the Shah did. They did not serve him.
In this respect, they were very different from their Sunni counterparts
who had long been co-opted into the political establishment. Saudi Arabia
is a prime example. During the Mosque siege in 1979, the ruling family
turned to the religious establishment for help in countering the rebels’
claims that the Saudis had forfeited their right to rule. As fully paid-up
servants of the state, the religious scholars backed the Saudis as legitimate
rulers and approved their course of action to reclaim the Grand Mosque,
even though it led to non-Muslim French troops entering Mecca which
was a breach of Muslim practice.
The co-option of the Sunni religious establishment was not unique
to Saudi Arabia. It was standard practice across the Arab world and had
been for a long time. In essence, it boiled down to the nature of power in
an Islamic state. The community which the Prophet Muhammad estab-
lished was based on religion. His authority to lead that community was
unique: his prophecy.5 After he died, the men who led the community
had to find a different way to bridge the gap between power and the
people. The four Rightly Guided Caliphs (r. 632–61) were men who had
known the Prophet personally and who were, for the most part, able to
connect with the rest of the community through their credentials as early
converts to the faith.
That situation changed when Muawiya became caliph in 661 after a
civil war. He chose to fill the gap between people and power with the
stability of his monarchy and the soldiers of his military. It was a political
model others were willing to follow. In this context, religion was harnessed
to shore up the ruler’s religious credentials: caliphs led the pilgrimage and
appointed their successor sons to do the same; they led jihad; they built
mosques and madrasas, and had Friday prayers said in their name. In
general, they created the environment where Islam could be freely prac-
ticed and the five pillars of the faith could be fulfilled.
What they did not do was issue religious rulings. That responsibil-
ity fell increasingly to the growing class of religious scholars: men who
collected and codified the sayings of the Prophet into a body of law and
whose knowledge of that law qualified them to issue rulings based on it.
This gave them enormous social power as they, not the caliph, made the
laws that shaped society and determined how people lived their day-to-
day lives. In this context, it was the religious scholars, not the caliph, who
spoke for Islam.
This state of affairs was challenged when al-Mamun became caliph
in 813. He, like Muawiya, took power after a civil war. Perhaps because
he wanted to step out of the shadow of fratricide hanging over him, al-
Mamun decided to assert his religious credentials. To do this, he took
up a very obscure doctrine on the nature of the Quran and made it offi-
cial policy.6 This doctrine was called Mutazilism and it claimed that the
Quran was created and did not exist coeternally with God. All of this
might sound overly theological and not in any way relevant to the high
politics of the state but al-Mamun knew what he was doing. He knew this
issue went right to the heart of his authority as caliph and he knew he
could use it to wrest power back from the religious scholars.
That is because in Islam, power belongs to God. The Quran is the
law. No one, not even the caliph, is above it. And because the law already
exists, the caliph has no ability to legislate. He can only interpret it. But
at this time, it was not the caliph who was interpreting the law, it was the
religious scholars. Mutazilism offered the caliph a way to change this and
tilt the balance of power back in his favor. Because if, as Mutazilism sug-
gested, the Quran was not coeternal with God, then the caliph had a lot
more room for maneuver when it came to legislation.
When al-Mamun made the doctrine official policy, he set up a trial, a
mihna, of religious scholars to see who would agree with it. This was no
open free-flowing debate. The scholars had the choice of agreeing with
the caliph and keeping their jobs (and their lives) or disagreeing and fac-
ing the consequences of his wrath.
The doctrine was not popular with the public and the religious scholars
were caught between their beliefs and the power of the state. The mihna
rapidly turned into an inquisition and a political witch hunt. Torture
was used to break scholars who would not bend to the caliph’s will. Most
famously, the scholar Ahmad ibn Hanbal refused to abandon his beliefs
and endured an array of medieval torture techniques and to no avail. He
still refused to break. The public loved him for it.
In the long run, the mihna did not work. Al-Mamun’s immediate suc-
cessors continued the policy (he made it a condition of succession) but in
the late 840s, the caliph al-Mutawakkil recognized reality and abandoned
it. In this battle between the caliph and the clerics, the clerics won. What
happened afterwards set the tone for the relationship between the schol-
ars and the Sunni state.
Politics and religion went their separate ways in Islam. It did not result
in society splitting between the sacred and the secular, as happened in
Europe after the Reformation, where religion retreated into the private
realm. Islam remained a public religion. Nor did the scholars become an
alternative source of power outside the political establishment. Instead,
a balance of power was worked out between the two power blocs that
saw the caliphs control the political arena and the scholars the social
one. (This is the same division of power the Saudis and the Wahhabis
agreed on when they joined forces in the middle of the eighteenth cen-
tury.) Rather than oppose each other, the two blocs reinforced each
other: caliphs needed religious endorsement for their rule; the scholars
gave it. Scholars needed funds to pay for their training and teaching; the
caliphs gave that.
In the Islamic world, where faith and identity are one and the same, the
religious establishment was always likely to enjoy a substantial amount
of power. But in Sunni society, they chose not to use it politically. They
stayed within their own sphere of influence and left politics to others.7
For the Shi‘i clerics, there was no such co-option. Because, before the
Safavid dynasty, there was no Shi‘i state. The nature of the Shi‘i faith is
another reason why Shi‘i religious scholars tended to stand apart from
the state. Their religious doctrine has a somewhat contradictory attitude
to power. On the one hand, Shi‘i doctrine could be idealistic and radi-
cal to the point of encouraging rebellion at all costs against an unjust
ruler. On the other, it could be resigned and cynical and call for an “arm’s
length” approach to anything associated with power.
These wildly different attitudes stem from the Shi‘i belief that political
authority belongs to the Prophet’s family. In the absence of the Hidden
Imam, who is the missing member of the family who will one day estab-
lish justice on earth, many Shi‘i clerics have deliberately chosen to keep
their distance from the moral compromises associated with power. As a
result, much of the Shi‘i religious establishment developed in isolation
from the political establishment. There are, however, exceptions and a
number of clerics in Iran during the rule of the Safavids, Qajars, and
Pahlavis worked for the state and received government salaries. But
many others stayed as far as possible from power. The latter included the
Azali branch of Shi‘ism whose members were downright hostile to the
rule of the Shahs. 8
In wider society, Shi‘i clerics performed the same functions as their
Sunni counterparts—shaping the social space, delivering judgments,
interpreting laws—but many of them, especially the Azalis, did so unen-
cumbered by the trappings of power. That gave them credibility in the
eyes of ordinary people.9 It also meant that in the event of popular pro-
tests against the ruling elite, the clerics could not be called upon by those
in power to prop up their rule. On the contrary, the Shi‘i clerics were
more likely to side with the people.
The power of the clerics was evident during the Constitutional
Revolution of 1905–6 when they formed one of the largest blocs in the
assembly responsible for drafting the constitution. The constitution was
an attempt to curtail the power of the Shah and establish a constitutional
monarchy based on Belgium’s. In what would become a familiar pattern
after the Arab Spring, those with the most to lose from the new order—
that is, the old order and the foreign powers that profited from it—did
their utmost to bring it down.
Shah Muhammad Ali deployed the Cossack Brigade against parlia-
ment in 1907 and 1908.10 Then, in 1909, he mounted a full-scale counter-
revolution. Even though his efforts failed and he had to abdicate in favor
of his young son Ahmad, parliament’s future was still in peril.11 Britain
and Russia were ready to intervene, especially as oil was discovered in
Iran in 1908. Russia invaded from the north, Britain from the south,
and in the midst of the mayhem and factional infighting in Tehran,
parliament could not agree on a prime minister and was dissolved on
December 20, 1911.12
The Qajar Shahs remained in power until 1925 but their authority
was heavily curtailed by the British and the Russians and, after the First
World War, by the British alone.
When Colonel Reza Khan seized power and appointed himself Shah in
1925, he knew where his power base was and, equally importantly, where
it was not. Reza Pahlavi Shah, as he was now known, built up the army
and neutralized the power of the clerics. As part of that process, he created
a secular state and placed education and sharia law—two areas where the
clerics ruled supreme—under state control, thus depriving the clerics of
much of their social power and employment opportunities. The changes
that resulted from the new laws were very public, and intentionally so:
Western dress was made compulsory and, in 1936, the veil was banned.
Iran looked like a different country even if, beneath the Westernized sur-
face, it was still the same.
Reza Pahlavi veered towards the West in more than matters of dress.
The Bolshevik Revolution in 1917 took Russia out of the Iranian equa-
tion and left Britain’s role in the country unchallenged. The 1919 Anglo-
Iranian Treaty made Iran a virtual colony of Britain and gave London
unfettered access to the country’s oil. The Shah tried to negotiate a bet-
ter deal with Britain through the Oil Agreement in 1933 but even under
this new deal Britain retained a controlling (and tax-free) interest in the
industry until 1993.13
The West’s role in Iran continued during the Second World War. In
1941, Britain and the Soviet Union forced Reza Pahlavi to step aside in
favor of his 23-year-old son Muhammad Reza. Iranian oil was needed for
the Allied war effort and London and Moscow calculated that the inexpe-
rienced son would be easier to manage than the father.
After the war, Western influence intensified. The Shah needed
American military support to fend off a possible Soviet attack and the
relationship between Washington and Tehran was mutually beneficial:
Washington wanted to secure Iran’s oil for the Western economy. When
the populist Prime Minister Muhammad Mosaddeq passed a law in 1953
nationalizing the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company, thereby nullifying the
sweetheart deals which benefited Western interests at Iran’s expense, the
British and Americans staged a coup and deposed him.
From then on, the Shah’s power was absolute and he was not afraid
to use it. He ruled with increasing autocracy. His secret police force, the
SAVAK (rumored to be trained by the Israelis), became notorious. His
reliance—or, some would say, his dependence—on the West set him at
odds with the merchants and the mosques and strengthened their alli-
ance. Both blocs resented the growing Western influence. The prefer-
ential deals granted to foreign companies hurt the bazaaris financially
and the compulsory Westernization of public life worried the religious
establishment.
When popular protests broke out against the Shah in 1977, Iran was in
a similar position to many Arab states on the eve of the Arab Spring: the
country was run by a long-serving autocratic ruler allied to the West who
enforced his power through a repressive police state and who was sur-
rounded by a clique-elite getting richer as everyone else got poorer. And,
as also happened during the Arab Spring, popular discontent with the
regime was so widespread; the protestors came from all walks of life.
The protests in Iran, however, were different from those in the Arab
Spring in one critical way: Iran’s protests found a leader and that leader was
supported by a powerful infrastructure and an extensive network of long-
standing alliances. From exile in Iraq then in Paris, Ayatollah Khomeini
became the rallying point of the protests and the international face of the
revolution. As a leading Shi‘i cleric with a history of opposition to the
Pahlavi regime and a frugal lifestyle that was the ultimate contrast to the
glamour and wealth of the ruling class, Khomeini was perfectly placed to
denounce the Shah. In the long run, he was able to do much more than
that. With the religious establishment backing the protests and calling
for the Shah’s downfall, Khomeini placed Iran’s religious infrastructure
at the disposal of the protestors. Mosques became sanctuaries. Sermons
became rallying cries. Funerals of the men and women shot by the secu-
rity forces became public demonstrations against the Shah.14
Even more importantly, Khomeini held the disparate protest groups
together by tapping into the common reference points of Iranian Shi‘ism
they all shared.15 To groups as wide-ranging as middle-class mothers,
poor peasants, striking workers, left-wing intellectuals, cosmopolitan
students, urban merchants: Khomeini, the Shi‘i ayatollah, set himself up
as a symbol of what they all had in common. By reminding them of their
shared Iranian and Shi‘i identity, he managed to convey the impression
that opposing the Shah was not only a religious duty; it was the inevi-
table will of God. That combined sense of national purpose and religious
obligation helped to sway the army’s loyalty towards the protestors and
facilitate the fall of the Shah. When the Shah went into exile on January
16, 1979, it was therefore Khomeini, rather than a colonel or a king, who
stepped forward to establish what he called the government of God. He
returned from exile in Paris on February 1, 1979, and began to build the
Islamic Republic.
He did it with remarkable speed.

The following month, a referendum was held on whether Iran should
be an Islamic Republic. The answer was a resounding yes. Turnout was
said to be high. According to official reports, nearly 90 percent of the
electorate voted and 98.2 percent of them were in favor of the Islamic
Republic.16
In December, another referendum was held. This time, the issue before
the public was the country’s new Islamic constitution. Again, voters
turned out in large numbers and, again, the result was decisive: 99.5 per-
cent voted yes.17 More elections followed in 1980: for the presidency in
January and for parliament in March through to May.
Within fifteen months of his return from exile, Khomeini had overseen
the creation of an entirely new political system: one that turned the clerics’
ability to interpret Islamic law into legislative power. In doing so, he over-
turned nearly 1,400 years of political practice across the Islamic world. In
Iran, there would be no separation between the rulers and the religious
establishment. In Iran, the religious establishment had become the state.
Khomeini’s willingness to consult the public at every step of the way gave
people confidence in the new republic and in the man at its helm. In addi-
tion, the fact that Khomeini publicly stated he did not want a member of
the religious establishment to run for the presidency reassured many that
the scholars would not concentrate power in their own hands.18
Khomeini, in other words, was not doing a “Nasser”: he was not
manipulating the revolution to take the presidency for himself. But
under the constitution he helped draft, he did not need to. Khomeini, as
Supreme Leader, was the real ruler of the country—all the powers usually
associated with a president belonged to him—and he was not elected by
the public. Nor was there was any mechanism for the public to get rid of
him. In a situation where the (elected) president could be overruled by
the (unelected) Supreme Leader, the Islamic Republic had the potential
to turn into a political monoculture. In Iran’s case, it was not a culture
monopolized by sultans or soldiers but by scholars. And that put them in
the powerful position of claiming the exclusive right to speak for Islam.
They could, if they so chose, give the impression that opposing them was
akin to opposing God.
Not everyone agreed with what was happening in the new Iran. But
what, arguably, cemented the Islamic Revolution, silenced its opponents,
and entrenched the rule of the ayatollahs was the Iran-Iraq War. With the
nation under invasion, Iranians rallied round the flag.
On September 22, 1980, Saddam Hussein sent the Iraqi army into Iran.
What motivated him to invade his neighbor had more to do with what was
going on in the Arab world than events in Iran. There was a leadership
vacuum in the Arab Middle East. Egypt, the region’s former leader, was
in the wilderness after Sadat’s peace deal with Israel. The Arab League
suspended the country’s membership in 1979. Under the Abbasids, Iraq
had led the Arab world for five centuries and Saddam Hussein seized this
moment to reclaim that leadership role. A soldier-president in the Nasserist
mold, Saddam had developed a very public cult of personality. Victory
over his Persian neighbor and the restoration of Baghdad as the capital of
the Middle East would send that cult into overdrive. Or so he hoped.
Wars in the Middle East are rarely about what they appear to be about.
They have a depressing habit of developing a momentum of their own
which makes them a magnet for other tensions in the region and, in a very
short period of time, the war that started is no longer the only one being
fought. This is one of the reasons Middle Eastern wars often last so long:
the Iran-Iraq War lasted eight years (1980–88); the war in Lebanon fifteen
(1975–90). With so many competing agendas at work, finding a formula
to end these wars is not a straightforward process of resolving the issues
between the original protagonists. It involves untangling a complicated
web of conflicting domestic, regional and international interests. And
more often than not, the underlying issues are not resolved with the end
of the war. As soon as the next conflict starts, they flare up again. The
Iran-Iraq War is an example of this.
What started out as a war of ambition on the part of Saddam Hussein
ended up as a proxy war between Saudi Arabia and Iran over who speaks
for Islam. The ruling family of conservative Saudi Arabia based their legit-
imacy on religion. They were the Custodians of the Two Holy Mosques.
But republican, revolutionary Iran claimed sovereignty belonged only to
God—not to a man, and certainly not to a king.
By making these claims, the Islamic Republic threw down the gaunt-
let to the rulers of Saudi Arabia. If Khomeini’s revolution succeeded and
spread across the region, the Saudi rulers risked losing more than the
building block of their state; they risked facing the same fate as the Shah.
But this was not stated openly. Instead, the Iran-Iraq War was pre-
sented as a Sunni-Shi‘i sectarian struggle and not as an undeclared battle
over the use of Islam as a political weapon. The Sunni-Shi‘i angle was con-
tentious because it had the potential to stir up intercommunal tensions. It
was also hugely misleading. The Saudis did not have a problem with the
Shah who was every bit as Shi‘i as the ayatollahs and they had fought a war
in Yemen in the 1960s to support the Shi‘i Zaydis. The common denomi-
nator in both cases was that the Shah and the Zaydis were monarchists.
The Saudi problem with the Islamic Republic was not its Shi‘i faith
but its Islamic ideology. The Saudis therefore financed Saddam Hussein’s
war against the Islamic Republic for the same reason they fought Nasser
in Yemen in the 1960s and the same reason they would later take on the
Muslim Brotherhood after the Arab Spring: they oppose any political sys-
tem that might appeal to their people and undermine their vice-like grip
on power. The war also gave them the opportunity to rein in the power of
Saddam Hussein. The secular soldier-president was cut from a different
political cloth from the Saudis. As long as he was exhausting his forces in
the fight against Islamic Iran, he would not be in any position to lead the
Arab world.
For the Saudis, placing the war with Iran within the context of a Sunni-
Shi‘i struggle helped them to redefine the political narrative at home.
Domestically, the ruling family were facing opposition on more than
one front. In 1979, Shi‘is in the eastern province of Hasa openly marked
the Shi‘i festival of mourning for the Prophet’s grandson al-Husayn who
was killed by the Umayyad army in the seventh century. This festival,
Ashura, is one of the most important in the Shi‘i calendar. It was banned
by the Saudis nearly three decades before the kingdom was even created.
Worried by events in Iran, the ruling family were particularly wary of any
public display of Shi‘i solidarity at this time and sent the National Guard
in to break up the crowds.19
In 1980, protests in the east escalated. On the first anniversary of
Ayatollah Khomeini’s return from exile, large demonstrations and strikes
were held in Shi‘i areas. Eastern Saudi Arabia is the center of oil produc-
tion and the strikes threatened the supply of the commodity that fuels
the kingdom’s economy. The National Guard were sent in to break up the
protestors and this time they did it violently.20
The Shi‘i protests in Saudi Arabia stemmed from domestic issues: in
the ultraorthodox Sunni kingdom, Shi‘is were second-class citizens, often
publicly called by the derogatory term Rafidi which means rebel or rene-
gade or, at its worst, apostate; the implication being that Shi‘is are not true
Muslims. In spite of this and in spite of the fact that the demonstrations
were a popular protest against autocratic power, the Saudi rulers chose
to cast the rebellion in 1980 as an Iranian-sponsored uprising. Blaming
Iran for what were, in essence, expressions of people power became a key
part of Saudi geopolitical strategy. From this time on, the Saudis would
see the hand of Iran wherever it suited them. And they would see Shi‘is
as a fifth column. In 2011, for example, they claimed the popular protests
against the King of Bahrain were the work of Iran—even when they very
obviously were not.
Within the context of the territorial war between Iraq and Iran in 1980
and the pseudosectarian war between Sunni Saudi Arabia and Shi‘i Iran,
another war was raging: a superpower-sponsored satellite struggle worthy
of the nineteenth century’s Great Game. In this war, the West sought con-
trol of the region’s resources and waterways to keep Moscow out. Iran and
Iraq are two of the world’s biggest oil producers. They border the Persian
Gulf and have access to the Strait of Hormuz. Iran under the Shah had
been firmly in the West’s camp. Iran under the ayatollahs was not. Neither
was Saddam Hussein. Like his Baath presidential counterpart Hafiz al-
Asad in Syria, Saddam looked to Moscow for superpower assistance.
For Washington, the combined threat of a Soviet satellite in Baghdad
and an anti-American regime in Tehran meant the Gulf War could not
be ignored. Washington judged Saddam Hussein to be the lesser of two

evils and supplied him with weapons and satellite imagery revealing
Iran’s troop movements. It was a cynical calculation—Saddam Hussein
had an atrocious human rights record against all his opponents especially
the Kurds, the Marsh Arabs and the Shi‘is in the south—but this was
before Glasnost. The Cold War still raged and cynical calculations based
on Realpolitik were a common feature of foreign policy.
The Iran-Iraq War ended in 1988 because both sides were exhausted.
Often compared to the futile trench warfare of the First World War, this
war saw both sides fight to a standstill, lose enormous numbers of casual-
ties, destroy their economies and gain nothing. Khomeini likened accept-
ing the UN-sponsored ceasefire deal to swallowing poison.
Even though the Cold War ended soon afterwards and that should
have removed the East-West power struggle from the Middle East, the
underlying issues of the Iran-Iraq War were not resolved. There was so
much unfinished business, the war did not really end. Iraq’s massive eco-
nomic debts led to the invasion of Kuwait in 1990 which prompted the
US-led Operation Desert Storm to liberate Kuwait the following year.
The unfinished business of that war led the United States and the United
Kingdom back to Iraq in 2003 to dismantle an arsenal of Weapons of
Mass Destruction that did not exist. The turmoil caused by that war and
its chaotic aftermath contributed to the sectarian tension and instability
that enabled ISIL to take over large parts of the country in 2014.
The wars-within-wars have also continued. The pseudo-Sunni-Shi‘i
sectarian war rages on, currently wreaking havoc in Iraq, Syria, and
Yemen and killing no one knows how many people.
And the battle over who speaks for Islam has intensified with new,
non-state actors challenging the old order for the use of religion as a polit-
ical weapon. Of these non-state actors, one side of the equation would
challenge the status quo by going to the violent extreme. The other side
of the equation would prove to be even more of a threat to the old order
by doing what the kings and colonels, the soldiers and sheikhs had never
done: winning free and fair elections.
21
1979: Holy War and

UnholyA lliances
The year 1979 was an eventful year in the Islamic world.

The year began with the political earthquake in Iran which saw the
exile of the Shah swiftly followed by the triumphant return of Ayatollah
Khomeini. By year’s end, the Islamic Revolution was in full swing. In a
sign of how much had changed, Iran turned its back on old alliances. No
longer a friend of the United States, Islamic Iran occupied the American
embassy in Tehran reportedly to prevent its use for a repeat of the 1953
US-led coup which reinstated the Shah.
In the last months of 1979, the ruling family of Saudi Arabia had their
own near-miss with revolution when the Grand Mosque of Mecca was
taken over by religious militants disillusioned by the way their country
was run. By the time the siege ended in early December, the established
order in the Middle East and their Western allies might have been forgiven
for breathing a collective sigh of relief and thinking the worst was over.
Then came Christmas and on December 25, 1979, Soviet tanks crossed
into Afghanistan. Kabul’s Bagram air base was already under Soviet con-
trol. For months, Moscow had been worried about their client in Kabul,
President Hafizullah Amin. He was deploying increasingly harsh meth-
ods against his own people and was rumored to be making overtures to
the United States.1
Soviet Russia wanted control of Afghanistan for the same reasons tsa-
rist Russia had coveted the country. It was a vital link in the chain to
the warm waters of the south. In 1979, Moscow went for regime change,
sent the troops in, and killed President Amin. The new president, Babrak
Karmal, was considered more likely to do what President Brezhnev in
Moscow told him. The Soviet army now effectively occupied the country.
Over the next decade, ten of thousands of Soviet soldiers would see ser-
vice in one of the most inhospitable, difficult terrains for an invading
army in the world. Alexander the Great had not been able to get past the
Hindu Kush. The Arab armies in the seventh and eighth centuries did
not do much better. Even the mighty British Empire was routed in the
country that has become known as the graveyard of empires. The British
army suffered the worst defeat in its history in Afghanistan in 1842. Of
the thousands of British soldiers deployed in the Afghan offensive, only
one survived to tell the tale.2
The British author-historian-journalist Jan Morris visited Afghanistan
in 1960. During her visit, she discussed events of 1842 with locals and
asked what would happen if a foreign army were to invade Afghanistan
today. The answer one old man gave her was prophetic: “‘The same,’ he
hissed between the last of his teeth.”3
For the United States, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan presented
an opportunity to encourage imperial overreach. The Soviet Union,
while not exactly in trouble, was not as secure as it looked. As protests in
Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Poland showed, large numbers of people
across the Communist Bloc were unhappy with Moscow’s control of their
affairs. Some of this discontent was economic: the Communist command
economy was not delivering for ordinary people. Some of the most famous
images of this time are of Russians queuing daily for bread and other
basic foodstuffs. For Soviet economic planners, the issue was complicated
by the arms race. Given the need to keep up with defense spending in the
US, Moscow diverted disproportionate sums to its own defense budget.
Even though the Soviet Gross National Product (GNP) was half the size of
America’s, Moscow spent the same amount of money on defense.4
The idea of imperial overreach had a long history. Britain and France
used it to great effect during the Crimean War in the 1850s when they
sided with the Ottoman Empire against tsarist Russia. Britain and France
had no wish to see either side emerge victorious from that war. Their
strategy was to have Istanbul and St. Petersburg fight to a standstill and
exhaust themselves militarily and financially in the process, thereby
making both less of a threat to Anglo-French ambitions elsewhere in the
region. (This was the same strategy the West adopted in the Iran-Iraq
War. Washington did not particularly want Saddam Hussein to win but
needed the ayatollahs to lose.)
The proxy war the West waged in Afghanistan against the Soviet Union
saw an unlikely group of parties come together to achieve the common
goal of saving Muslim Afghanistan from the Communist infidel. The
Americans could not fight openly for fear of escalating the Cold War, so
they sent CIA operatives in to equip and train the locals. The Pakistanis
HOLY WAR AND UNHOLY ALLIANCES 215
assisted with logistics and intelligence. The Saudis opened their cheque
books and, most importantly of all, they allowed the kingdom’s religious
establishment to declare the war against the Soviet occupier a jihad.
Turning the proxy war into a holy war changed the nature of the struggle.
Communism had not gained the traction in Muslim countries that it had
in other parts of the postcolonial world because it challenged the belief in
God. A war of liberation against an infidel occupier was a narrative that
made sense to a lot of young men across the Arab world.
For the Saudi ruling family, the strategy was nothing short of genius.
It gave them the chance to reassert their religious legitimacy in the after-
math of the siege in the Grand Mosque. Society across the Arab world
had moved towards a more overt, politicized Islam after the Arab defeat
in the Six-Day War. By taking a leading role in supporting the jihad in
Afghanistan, the ruling family were able to marshal this militancy for
their own purposes. It meant they could export potential troublemakers
from the kingdom, stop any Soviet advance in the region, and strengthen
Riyadh’s growing alliance with Washington.
Since the oil embargo in 1973, Riyadh’s relationship with the United
States had deepened. Riyadh relied on American expertise to keep the
oil flowing and on American defense to keep the kingdom safe from
territorial threats like Saddam Hussein’s Iraq and ideological ones like
Ayatollah Khomeini’s Iran. However, the relationship between Riyadh
and Washington was about a lot more than weapons and oil. It was blos-
soming into other areas. Increasing numbers of Saudi students attended
school in the United States. Increasing numbers of Saudi companies did
business with American companies. And increasing amounts of Saudi
Arabia’s enormous oil wealth was recycled in the banks, high-end prop-
erty, and stock markets of the West. In a short period of time, Saudi Arabia
had become the unofficial leader of the Arab world and one of America’s
most reliable allies in the region.5
But regardless of how close and cordial elite-to-elite relations were
between Riyadh and Washington, the fact remained that they were
strange bedfellows who had next to nothing in common ideologically.
The United States was the leader of the Free World with a constitution
and a political system that divided power between the executive, the
congress, and the senate. Saudi Arabia was an absolute monarchy with a
medieval power structure closed to everyone but the ruling family. This
was no meeting of the minds. It was an alliance of shared interests rather
than shared beliefs.
In terms of foreign policy, there was nothing unusual in this. Unlikely
political alliances were not new, especially in times of war. The Second
World War, for example, is often described as a war for freedom against
fascism. Yet one of the main players on the Allied side was the Soviet
Union which, under Stalin, was no workers’ paradise. In spite of this,
Moscow arguably played the greatest role fighting fascism. It was thanks
to Russian resistance in the Battle of Stalingrad that the course of the war
turned against Germany and Soviet casualties, at around 25 million, were
higher than anyone else’s.
What made the Riyadh–Washington alliance so unlikely was
Washington’s broader policy in the Middle East. No matter how reliable
Riyadh was as an ally to Washington, the Saudis always came second in
America’s regional priorities to Israel. This resulted in a number of incon-
sistencies in Riyadh’s adoption of—and support for—jihad as a means to
achieve America’s objectives in Afghanistan.
Uncomfortable questions such as why there was a jihad to liberate
Afghanistan but no comparable effort to liberate Jerusalem. Or why the
Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and the conservative countries of the Gulf were
so closely allied with the United States when Washington was Israel’s
patron and protector.
As long as the war in Afghanistan lasted, these questions would stay
beneath the surface. But as soon as the war ended, they risked coming
out into the open and demanding answers the Saudi establishment could
not give.
The war in Afghanistan ended in the spring of 1988. It was Mikhail

Gorbachev who brought the war to an end. After nearly a decade of fight-
ing for no obvious gain, he ordered the Russian troops home. The last of
the Soviet soldiers left Afghanistan in February 1989.
Washington had every reason to be jubilant. The strategy of imperial
overreach—of making the cost of empire greater than its rewards—had
worked magnificently. The war had exacerbated already existing eco-
nomic, political, and social tensions within the Soviet system and it was
not long before the whole system collapsed. Afghanistan had proved to be
the graveyard of yet another empire.
In the long run, the war would have serious repercussions for the
West, too. When the Taliban took over Afghanistan in 1996, the country
became a magnet for jihadis fully committed to the cause of global jihad.
One of the consequences of the war was that it provided an opportu-
nity for thousands of young men across the Arab world to come together
and fight in a common cause. They did so legitimately with the full back-
ing of many of the regimes across the region. In the course of the war,
the jihadis learnt as much about weapons as they would have done had
they joined the regular army. They also learned guerrilla fighting and
covert operations—essential skills for any insurgent army wanting to
bring down a regime they opposed. And perhaps most importantly of all,
young men from places as far apart as Algeria and Arabia met with other
young men who shared their belief in a different way of doing things. The
jihad in Afghanistan took these isolated individuals and made them into
a community. It is no coincidence that Osama bin Laden (whose job in
the jihad was logistical) called his organization “al-Qaida” which means
base or foundation. He was building a network of people who shared a
similar outlook. From the outset, al-Qaida was an organization with the
potential to operate beyond borders, to be a transnational movement that
would fight an ideological war rather than a territorial one.
All of this posed no problem for the Americans or their Arab allies
when the jihadis were working with the establishment to fight a common
enemy. But even before the war in Afghanistan ended, there were signs
this might not always be the case. On October 6, 1981, a group called
Organization for Holy War ( Jamaat al-Jihad ) killed the Egyptian presi-
dent, Anwar Sadat, as he reviewed a military parade commemorating the
war against Israel in 1973. The young leader of the group (himself a mem-
ber of the military) famously shouted: “I am Khalid al-Islambouli, I have
killed pharaoh, and I do not fear death.”
In Egypt, militant Islam had been growing under the radar for years.
The enormous gap between power and the people was fertile grounds for
extremist groups to take root. In a country where merely expressing an
opinion was enough to warrant a lengthy prison sentence, some militants
adopted an all-or-nothing strategy. In the absence of any public space
to express views that differed from those of the regime, these groups
resorted to violence. Most of them were not mass movements but small
cells of people totally committed to their goal.
In organizational terms, they posed no serious long-term challenge to
an authoritarian state like Egypt. Ideologically, it was a different matter.
Many of these groups embraced the idea that modern Muslim society was
living in a state of ignorance, or Jahiliyya. Jahiliyya was a loaded term
because it referred to the Age of Ignorance that existed in Arabia before
Islam. Militants deliberately used the word to convey their belief that the
current rulers of the Arab world were not true Muslims. As a result, they
were free to excommunicate them. Through the process of excommuni-
cation (takfir), militants countered the legitimacy of the ruling elite and
the religious scholars who backed them with their own claim to speak for
Islam. In doing so, they also claimed the right to decide who was—and
who was not—a true Muslim.
In Egypt in the 1970s and 1980s, militant groups had little opportunity
to implement the idea or to demonstrate how it would work in practice.
But the consequences of the idea have been far-reaching because ISIL laid
claim to it and they now claim the right to speak exclusively for Islam and
to decide who is, and who is not, a true Muslim. Their fight, therefore, is
not only against people who are not Muslim but against Muslims who do
not share their interpretation of Islam.
The unfinished business of the war in Afghanistan dovetailed with the

unfinished business of the Iran-Iraq War in the summer of 1990 and set
in motion several of the wars currently raging across the region.
On August 2, 1990, Saddam Hussein’s army invaded Kuwait. The Iraqi
economy had completely collapsed during the war with Iran and needed
high oil revenues to fund reconstruction. But oil prices were artificially
low because of overproduction. Saddam identified Kuwait as one of the
overproducers, invaded, and declared Kuwait the nineteenth province of
Iraq.6 Neighboring Saudi Arabia nervously looked on, worried it might be
about to become the twentieth.
At this point, Osama bin Laden offered his services to the Saudi rul-
ers. Bin Laden was a national hero. Up until now, he was also part of
the establishment. He came from one of the kingdom’s wealthiest fami-
lies but gave it all up to go and fight the jihad in Afghanistan. By choos-
ing to turn his back on a life of luxury, he earned the respect of many
people across the kingdom. In the summer of 1990, with the Iraqi army
on the kingdom’s northern border, Bin Laden offered to raise an army
of one hundred thousand Afghan veterans to defend the country. The
Saudi family declined the offer and turned instead to Washington. Five
days after Iraq invaded Kuwait, the first deployment of US troops arrived
in the kingdom. The decision to call them in was the king’s.7 The long-
standing contradictions in the relationship between Saudi Arabia and the
US now began to come out into the open.
For the United States, the motivation for fighting the war was to liber-
ate Kuwait from the dictatorship of Saddam. There was a certain irony
here. Kuwait itself was not a free country. It was ruled by the Sabah fam-
ily and had been since the mid-1700s. Like the other ruling families in
the region, the Sabahs were no constitutional monarchy. Their word was
law. The leader of the Free World therefore found itself in the unlikely
position of fighting to liberate the people of a country who were not actu-
ally free. This sort of contradiction might have made sense under the
Eisenhower Doctrine during the Cold War but the Cold War was over.
America had won. In this new post-Cold War context where the United
States was the world’s only remaining superpower, the US-led operation
in the Gulf started to look more about securing the status quo and the
financial advantages that went along with it than with promoting any sort
of freedom agenda.
It was also dangerous for the United States to risk involvement in the
internal politics of the Arab world. Previous American deployments in
the region, for example those in Lebanon in the 1950s and 1980s, had
not ended well. The West, in general, lacked credibility with the people
of the region because of its imperialist past. The United States had no
such colonial history in the Middle East but it suffered from being seen
as Israel’s first line of defense and was not viewed as a disinterested party.
Added to this was the complication that alliances in the Arab world are
constantly shifting. During the Iran-Iraq War, Saddam Hussein was on
the same side as the Gulf leaders. Two years later, he had invaded one of
them and was threatening to invade another. But the real danger to the
United States of fighting a war in the Muslim world is that wars in this
region have a tendency to suck in outside players in a way that makes it
extremely difficult for them to leave. The Soviet Union had discovered
that to their cost in Afghanistan.
For the Saudis, the motivation for inviting the Americans to deploy
on their soil was equally fraught with contradictions and dangers. King
Fahd (r. 1982–2005) had recently taken on the title Custodian of the Two
Holy Mosques (Khadim al-Haramayn al-Sharifayn) as a way of demon-
strating his religious legitimacy as the protector of the pilgrimage and the
birthplace of Islam. But when he needed to defend Islam’s Holy Places, he
had to rely on non-Muslims to do it for him. For the likes of Bin Laden,
this was a very public national humiliation. It showed to the whole world
that Saudi Arabia could not defend itself and that the billions of dollars
spent on Western-made military equipment in recent years had been a
waste of money.
Even worse were the religious implications of the American deploy-
ment. It breached the Prophet’s reported saying that there could be no
two religions in the Arabian peninsula. According to the journalist and
writer, Abdel Bari Atwan, who travelled to Afghanistan in 1996 to inter-
view Bin Laden, Bin Laden’s hatred of the Saudi ruling family and the
United States started here. That hatred first found expression in sermons
in mosques. It later turned violent. 8
On August 7, 1998—the eighth anniversary of the American deploy-
ment to Saudi Arabia—truck bombs exploded outside the US embassies
in Kenya and Tanzania. Hundreds of people were killed. Bin Laden later
claimed that the Americans had not taken the message he was sending
them seriously because the bombs had not exploded on American soil
and the majority of the fatalities had not been American. Al-Qaida then
attacked the USS Cole off the coast of Yemen in 2000 and the fatalities on
that occasion were American sailors.
It was the next major al-Qaida attack on civilians that brought Bin
Laden to the world’s attention. The attacks of September 11, 2001, on the
United States killed nearly three thousand people, left America in a state
of shock, and set a new benchmark of horror in terrorist tactics. Like the
date of the attacks in Kenya and Tanzania, the date of these attacks was
not random. September 11 was the anniversary of the end of the first
Saudi state. On that day in 1818, the forefathers of the current king sur-
rendered their last stronghold in central Arabia to the Egyptian army led
by the ruler of Egypt’s son.
Whether Bin Laden was sending a message to the Saudi elite that their
kingdom was about to suffer a similar fate, we will probably never know,
just as we will probably never know if the aim of the attacks on September
11, 2001, was to drive a wedge between the Saudi ruling family and their
American allies. What we do know is that in going to the extreme and
assuming the right to speak for Islam, Bin Laden laid the foundation
for the jihadi groups operating across the Middle East right now and
that each new incarnation of the jihadi message is becoming even more
extreme than the one before.
There is, however, an alternative to the all-or-nothing extremism of
the jihadi groups and the Arab Spring would reveal it.
22
The Arab Spring and the

Democratic Alternative
On Friday, December 17, 2010, a young man from a small town in south-
ern Tunisia went to work as usual. By the end of the day, he had set in
motion the chain of events that would lead to the Arab Spring.
What happened to 26-year-old Muhammad Bouazizi on that December
day is now seen as a touchstone moment—similar to the shooting of
Archduke Ferdinand and his wife Sophie nearly a century earlier—that
sets the dominoes tumbling and causes the established order to collapse
almost overnight. On the face of it, Muhammad Bouazizi was an unlikely
revolutionary. He was the sole breadwinner in his family (his father died
when he was a teenager) and he supported his mother and six siblings
from the money he made selling fruits and vegetables from a cart. He
could not afford a permit and was often harassed by local officials looking
for a bribe so he could continue trading. On December 17, local officials
confiscated his goods and tried to take his scales. The scales were not his
so he refused to hand them over. At that point, a female police officer
slapped him—a painfully public humiliation for a young Arab man to
endure. He went to the police station and to the governor’s office to plead
for the return of his goods. No one helped him. In despair, he stood out-
side the governor’s office, drenched himself in gasoline and set himself
on fire. He died in the Ben Arous Hospital in the Tunisian capital on
January, 4, 2011.
Ten days later, Tunisia’s long-serving president, Zine El Abidine Ben
Ali, in power since 1987, was forced out of office by massive public pro-
tests and went into exile in Saudi Arabia. Less than a month later, Egypt’s
long-serving president, Hosni Mubarak, in power since 1981, was also
forced out of office by public protests. The story was repeated across the
region. Libya’s long-serving Brother Leader, in power since 1969, was in

similar trouble. As was Syria’s President Bashar al-Asad, whose family
had been in power since 1971. Even the kingdoms were not immune: King
Hamad of Bahrain faced unprecedented public protests calling for the
downfall of his regime.
What made these protests different from protests of the past was their
sheer scale. The Arab Spring was not ideologically driven. It was not even
political in the traditional sense. The protests were as much about dignity
as democracy. They were popular in the truest sense of the word. People
across the Arab world looked at Muhammad Bouazizi and saw them-
selves. They identified with his daily struggle to provide for his family
in increasingly difficult economic times. They, too, knew what it was to
deal with an indifferent state. And they, too, despaired that anything was
going to change any time soon. People across the Arab world lost their
fear when they had nothing left to lose.
The Arab Spring took place against a catastrophic economic climate
and a political backdrop rife with contradictions. The elite remained
firmly in place and continued to enjoy the privileges of power at a time
when the majority of their people were struggling financially. The price
of wheat rocketed in 2010 making the cost of a staple foodstuff like
a loaf of bread almost prohibitively expensive for many. The global
credit crunch negatively affected tourism—a key component of North
African economies—because tourists across Europe were tightening
their belts.
Young men were particularly affected by the economic difficulties. In
a society where religion governs social mores, men are expected to put
the money together for a dowry before they marry. But with the economy
directed by those at the top for those at the top, it was not easy for young
men without connections to advance into the economic independence of
adulthood. The result is deep frustration and a sense of emasculation.
In The New Middle East, Professor Fawaz Gerges draws attention to the
high rate of sexual impotency in Egypt. He notes it is a “phenomenon that
has escaped attention” but is an indication of what is really going on at a
social, economic, and political level in the country.1
Yet the economic crisis had no political repercussions because people
in the Arab world had no access to power. If you look at a photograph
taken at an Arab League Heads of Government Summit in 2000 and com-
pare it to one taken in 2010, you would see almost all the same players in
place. Saddam Hussein would be a notable exception. What helped hold
this system so firmly in place was the increasing tendency of the presi-
dents-for-life to appoint one of their sons to succeed them, as happened
in Syria in 2000.
ARAB SPRING AND DEMOCRATIC ALTERNATIVE 223
What made this stability look all the more anachronistic was the drive
for democracy in the region: the US-led war on Iraq in 2003 led President
George W. Bush to promote what he called a “Freedom Agenda” in the
Middle East. When the Weapons of Mass Destruction for which the war
was fought were not found, the rationale for the huge American war effort
was reinvented to make it a struggle of freedom over tyranny. It was a
noble aim on the president’s part but it left him open to accusations of
double standards while Washington willingly continued to ally with
presidents-for-life and monarchs without mandates.
The American commitment to democracy in the Middle East was seri-
ously called into question by the Hamas victory in Palestinians elections
in 2006. In another failure of intelligence in the region, Washington had
not expected the group to win in spite of much evidence on the ground
pointing to such a victory. The Bush administration responded by ignor-
ing the result. Together with the UN, the EU, and Russia, Washington
placed sanctions on Hamas. Many Palestinians believe the sanctions and
the subsequent Israeli siege of Gaza—which bans everything from certain
types of chocolate to dual purpose industrial equipment entering the ter-
ritory—is a form of collective punishment because they dared to vote for a
party that puts Palestinian interests before those of Israel and the West.
How to deal with the established order in the Middle East, while
simultaneously supporting democratic change, is a conundrum for
Western leaders and it has been for some time. It goes back to the days
of empire in the nineteenth century when the British ruler of Egypt,
Lord Cromer, mused that Arabs should only be given the right to rule
themselves when they could be trusted to do so in a manner that suited
Western interests. In the twenty-first century, democratically elected
presidents and prime ministers in the West claim to support the idea of
democracy in the Middle East. But in practice, especially after 9/11, they
have done the opposite. They have drawn ever closer to the Arab ruling
class and ignored that ruling class’s criminalization of peaceful political
protest as terrorism.
President George W. Bush’s priority after 9/11 was to keep America
and Americans safe from further attacks. Intelligence sharing necessi-
tated cooperation with leaders in the Arab world. And the darker side
of the War on Terror—the rendering of prisoners for torture in loca-
tions that were off the grid—was facilitated by Arab leaders who had
no qualms about torturing their own people. But it left the president’s
commitment to a “Freedom Agenda” looking like another example of
Western hypocrisy.
The links between the West and the Arab elite grew even closer in
the wake of the global recession when the cash-strapped countries of the
West were grateful for investment from the cash-rich oil economies of
the Gulf. So much Arab money poured into London, the process became
known as the “Gulf stream” and at least one British bank was recapitalized
with Gulf money. Everything from football clubs and football stadiums
to high-end department stores and iconic buildings to university Arabic
departments and professorships were bought or funded by oil money.2
The uncomfortable truth is that Western leaders want stability in the
region more than they want democracy. They want the oil to flow, the
chokepoints of global trade to stay open, and Israel to be safe. They will
support whoever can achieve that. It is one of the great unspoken truths
of Western policy that the Western political establishment actually fears
democracy in the Middle East. It fears the loss of control, the uncer-
tainty, and the potential chaos. Most of all, it fears that the democrati-
cally expressed will of the people of the Middle East will run counter to
Western interests in the region.
During the Cold War, the West supported the people of the Communist
Bloc against the regimes. In the Middle East, the West has done the oppo-
site. It has supported the regimes against their people. And they have
done it in the name of securing the status quo.
Arab rulers have just as much interest in preserving that status quo.
Where they once justified their rule in religious, national, paternalistic or
anti-imperialist terms, the overriding discourse in recent years has been
the need to secure “stability.” They know that plays well in the West. And
it suits them too. Stability means no change. No change means they stay
in power.
To explain this state of affairs where the West says one thing and
does another and where leaders in the Middle East brook no opposition
to their rule, an idea emerged in the West called “Arab Exceptionalism”:
the belief that Arabs were different from everyone else; that they did not
want democracy; that Islam was incompatible with it; that force was the
only language Arabs understood.3 The idea of the Arabs as an “exception”
explained away the lack of democracy in the Middle East and allowed a
complacent alliance to develop between the democratically elected lead-
ers of the West and the dictators of the Middle East.
The massive protests of the Arab Spring ripped that idea to shreds.
No longer could Arabs be depicted as docile sheep humbly submitting
to the rule of a president or king. One of the great successes of the Arab
Spring is that it humanized Arabs. For so long caricatured in the West
as bearded jihadis waging violent war against infidels, Arabs suddenly
appeared on television screens across the world as people with the same
concerns as everyone else. Employment and education, housing and
healthcare, dignity and democracy—these were the issues they spoke
of, not establishing a Salafist version of the caliphate or waging eternal

jihad. And just like everyone else, they, too, wanted the right to elect and
unelect their own governments.
When Tunisians and Egyptians won that right for themselves, the elec-
tions had a clear winner: the Muslim Brotherhood, known as Ennahda in
Tunisia and as the Party of Freedom and Justice in Egypt. This was what
the old order and their friends in the West had so long dreaded: power in
the hands of people who would not do their bidding.
In June 2012, the results of the first free and fair presidential elections
in Egypt’s seven-thousand-year history were announced. The second
round run-off offered a choice between two very different Egypts: that
of Muhammad Morsi, the candidate of the Muslim Brotherhood and
Ahmad Shafiq, the candidate of the military. Morsi won by over a million
votes. But to do so, he had to rely on the votes of large numbers of young
secular liberals who were not his natural supporters. Having no desire to
see Shafiq lead the military back to power, they lent Morsi their support.
For the Muslim Brotherhood, Morsi’s victory was the culmination of
almost a century of struggle and persecution. The organization was the
brainchild of Hasan al-Banna (1904–49) who was in his early twenties
when he set it up. After graduating from college in Cairo, the Ministry of
Education sent al-Banna to work as a primary school teacher in Ismailiyya
on the Suez Canal. During his time in the city, al-Banna saw first-hand
what occupation really meant and it did not sit comfortably with him. The
easy living of the Europeans who were employed by the canal company
was a world away from the poverty and daily grind of ordinary Egyptians
and the casual arrogance of the British army was a sharp contrast to the
chronic state of Egypt’s dependence.
Al-Banna was not part of the metropolitan, Westernized elite. He
came from the country and grew up in a religious household where his
father led prayers in the local mosque.4 Al-Banna himself was heavily
influenced by the writings of the Muslim reformist Rashid Rida (1865–
1935). Rida’s book The Caliphate or the Supreme Imamate (1923) outlined
the framework for an Islamic state. Published not long after the Ottoman
Empire ended, Rida’s vision of an Islamic state resonated with those who
understood their identity in Islamic terms and who felt no affinity for the
new, secular nation-states of the Middle East.
Five years after the book’s publication, al-Banna established the
Muslim Brotherhood (al-Ikhwan al-Muslimin) which was dedicated to
building an Islamic society from the bottom up. The movement chimed
with a need in society and grew rapidly.5 Its expanding base of mem-
bers spread the message by preaching in mosques. More than that, al-
Banna understood the problems of ordinary people—he came from the
same background—so there was a very practical, self-help side to the
Brotherhood. Like the waqfs, the system of religious endowments that
functioned as a prestate welfare system, the Brotherhood provided social
services for the poor, including health and education, which they other-
wise could not have afforded.
The movement’s message of brotherhood (there would later be a sister-
hood for female members) and its widening support base eventually led
it into the political arena and to a clash with the established order, a clash
which, at times, became violent. Around 1940, the Brotherhood set up
the “Secret Apparatus” (al-Jihaz) although it remains unclear how much
al-Banna was involved in this decision.6 The 1940s were politically turbu-
lent in Egypt and the Brotherhood’s Secret Apparatus was one of a num-
ber of groups involved in clandestine acts of sabotage against the king.
(Ironically, of all the anti-regime forces at work in Egypt in the 1940s and
early 1950s, it was the military—the defenders of king and country—who
brought the king down.)
The Brotherhood would suffer for the Jihaz, then and now. It allowed
the authorities to label the organization’s members terrorists and to justify
outlawing their peaceful political activity on the grounds of state security.
Hasan al-Banna was killed by agents of the state on February 12, 1949, in
a revenge attack for the assassination of Prime Minister Mahmoud Fahmi
Nuqrashi by a Muslim Brother less than two months earlier.
The Brotherhood did not die with al-Banna. Even though it was banned
until 1951, it remained sufficiently influential for Nasser’s Free Officers to
hold talks with its leadership. Nasser was aware of the Brotherhood’s wide
reach in society and of the dedication of its members. Volunteers from
the Brotherhood fought with distinction in 1948 and helped the Egyptian
army (including Nasser) when they were pinned down in Falluja near
Beersheba.7 Nasser came from the same background as many of their
members so he recognized the movement’s potential to become an alter-
native powerbase. Under Nasser, the Brotherhood were not just banned;
they were persecuted.
The movement’s most iconic figure during this period, the school
teacher turned poet turned political philosopher whose fame has long
outlived the obscurity of his execution in the dead of an August night
nearly 50 years ago, was Sayyid Qutb.
Qutb, like al-Banna (and Nasser), came from the country. He was born
in the village of Musha in Upper Egypt in 1906 and he, too, moved to
Cairo for his education. His journey to political Islam was a long and
gradual one. Published poet, literary critic, religious exegesist, teacher,
and civil servant (he spent two years in the United States studying educa-
tional techniques for Egypt’s Ministry of Education), Qutb was a thought-
ful, intelligent man of many talents who, if you read his life story, seems
like a restless soul in search of something. In the Muslim Brotherhood, he
found it. But in doing so, he lost his freedom and, ultimately, his life.
His writings after he joined the Brotherhood secured Sayyid Qutb’s
place as the philosopher of modern political Islam. His most famous
work Milestones (1964), written while he was in prison, argued that Egypt
under Nasser was like Arabia during the Jahiliyya, the Age of Ignorance
before the Prophet brought Islam. Under these circumstances, the only
reasonable course of action was to flee like the Prophet did when he left
Mecca for Medina in 622.
Qutb’s depiction of Nasser as a pharaoh and his indictment of Nasser’s
Egypt as unIslamic could lead to only one destination in the one-party
state Nasser built. The mid-1960s were the high watermark of Nasser’s
power in Egypt and across the Arab world. Many people still saw him as
their savior (the disaster of 1967 had yet to happen) and his authority was
virtually unchecked. After a show trial in which Sayyid Qutb faced a range
of charges from terrorism to possession of weapons to plotting a coup, he
was sentenced to death on August 21, 1966, and hanged eight days later.
As happened with Hasan al-Banna, the Muslim Brotherhood did not
die with Sayyid Qutb. If anything, his death and his dignity in the face of it
fuelled his legend. If Nasser hoped Qutb’s death would be the end of him,
he was badly mistaken. Qutb’s influence has grown since his death and
his writings have projected that influence into the twenty-first century.
You cannot understand what’s really going on in the Middle East today
without understanding Sayyid Qutb’s philosophy of political Islam. What
makes him so important is that he lived out his resistance to the state and,
by doing so, showed what a one-party state does to its opponents.
For political Islamists who face persecution and prison for their beliefs,
Sayyid Qutb is a very powerful role model. For those who do not share his
Islamist worldview, he is an anathema. Furthermore, his theory of resis-
tance has been claimed by moderates and militants alike. After 9/11, he
was often referred to as the godfather of al-Qaida even though he was not
himself a violent man and was not personally involved in acts of terror.
This adoption of him by militants such as al-Qaida and ISIL has made
him into a controversial figure. That controversy has often obscured
much of his message and made it all too easy for authorities in the Arab
world to cast the Muslim Brotherhood as closet terrorists because Qutb
was a Brother.
For the established order in the Middle East, the real problem with
Sayyid Qutb and the movement he belonged to is that they just will not
go away.
In Egypt, Nasser’s successor Anwar Sadat (r. 1970–81) went for a differ-
ent approach from the persecution of the past. Sadat styled himself “The
Believer President” and initially tried to co-opt the Brotherhood as part
of his strategy to neutralize the Communists and Islamize his presidency.
But it did not work. During his three decades in power, Hosni Mubarak
(r. 1981–2010) went for mixture of persuasion and persecution. But that
did not work either. Over the years, the Muslim Brotherhood has estab-
lished a core base of support that seems satisfied to take the long view of
history and to wait for events to move their way. And even though the
movement’s leadership has, at times, vacillated between outright resis-
tance to power and a more pragmatic approach, that core base of support
has remained solid.
To achieve this, the Muslim Brotherhood have been assisted by the
closed nature of politics in the Arab world. Since multiparty politics are
virtually nonexistent in the region, the mosque became a focal point
for opposition. The leaders of the one-party republics and the no-party
kingdoms of the Middle East could ban membership of political parties
but they could not stop people going to the mosque. After 1967 and the
renewed interest in Islam as a political force, the mosque became more
than a place of prayer. It became the center of an alternative community
where social services were coordinated, cassette tapes of banned preach-
ers were circulated, and like-minded people felt free to share their views
in a safe place.
This process was not limited to Egypt. The ideology of the Muslim
Brotherhood recognized no borders and branches opened up across the
region. From Turkey to Tunisia, Algeria to Syria, the Brotherhood spread.
Its reach was wide but it enjoyed more success in the secular republics
where religion has been forced to the margins of public life than in the
conservative countries of the Gulf where religion features strongly in
the public arena. Across the region, however, the different branches of
the Muslim Brotherhood would suffer the same consequences of being
on the wrong side of power. Just as Nasser recognized the movement’s
potential to be an alternative powerbase and took draconian steps to deal
with the challenge it posed, other Arab leaders did the same.
In Syria, following a sustained campaign of Islamist opposition to his
rule, President Hafiz al-Asad launched a full-on assault in 1982 on the
city of Hama which he considered a Brotherhood stronghold, killed thou-
sands of civilians in the process, then made membership of the Muslim
Brotherhood a capital offence.
In Tunisia, after taking power following a “medical” coup in 1987,

President Ben Ali allowed greater participation in parliamentary elec-
tions in 1989. But when Islamists polled strongly, the president banned
the movement, labeled its members terrorists, and imprisoned thousands
of them. Many others, including the movement’s leader Rachid al-Ghan-
nouchi, had to flee to Europe.8 Al-Ghannouchi was not able to return to
Tunisia until after the Arab Spring.
In Algeria, in 1991, a similar process occurred but with more cata-
strophic results. In the 1980s, Algeria’s economy was going through a
period of sustained decline and the military regime was forced to bow
to public pressure for more open elections. The Islamic Salvation Front
(FIS) polled well in the parliamentary elections of 1991 and looked set
to form a majority government. In response, the military staged a coup
and took complete control of the state. They received the backing of
Western leaders, notably France’s President Mitterand, who were con-
cerned about regional security and the stability of oil supplies. FIS never
got to exercise their electoral mandate. Algeria descended into a civil
war that was so brutal, beheadings became a common occurrence. The
war ended when the military reclaimed the state. Since then, they have
played on people’s fears of a return to chaos in order to cement their
grip on power.
In the Occupied Territories of the West Bank and Gaza, the Palestinian
Muslim Brotherhood is known as the Islamic Resistance Movement
(Harakat al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya or Hamas for short). Like other
branches of the movement, they, too, built up a solid core of support by
spreading their message through the mosques, by taking care of people’s
social needs, and by having leaders who came from the same background
as the majority of people. But the Palestinian movement is different from
the Brotherhood elsewhere in the Arab world because it operates under
Israeli military occupation. Hamas therefore defines itself, first and fore-
most, as a resistance movement and has an armed wing named after a
Palestinian resistance fighter in the 1930s, Izz al-Din al-Qassam, who
fought against the British occupation.
When Hamas won the elections to the Palestinian Legislative Council
(PLC) in 2006, taking 72 out of the 132 seats, Washington, to Israel’s relief,
refused to recognize the results. The Americans and the Israelis consider
Hamas a terrorist organization and refuse to deal with it. America’s allies
followed suit and disregarded the results of what were generally believed
to have been completely free and fair elections.
You will have noticed a very obvious pattern here: any time Islamists
win free and fair elections, the results of those elections are immediately
ignored by the old order and their allies in the West.
Morsi’s election victory in 2012 was supposed to change that. The

popular protests of the Arab Spring were supposed to have swept away
the old certainties of Arab Exceptionalism and the old contradictions of
the West saying one thing and doing another in the Middle East. There
was supposed to be a new Middle East where the gap between people and
power was bridged, not by state-sponsored repression or by oil money, but
by democratic elections.
The new Egypt was going to be like Turkey. After the end of the
Ottoman Empire, the Turkish war hero, Atatürk, steered Turkey almost
single-handedly to becoming a secular republic. Since 1923, the Turkish
Republic plotted a course away from its imperial past towards a future as
a fully fledged independent nation-state. For decades, the military repeat-
edly intervened in politics, staging coups and making and unmaking
governments at will. Nevertheless, Turkey managed to develop the inde-
pendent institutions necessary to ensure that when the Turkish people
elected an Islamist party—the Justice and Development Party (AKP)—to
power in 2002, the results of the election stood and the AKP’s Recep
Tayyip Erdogan became prime minister.
This is what the Muslim Brotherhood thought would happen in Egypt
after the Arab Spring. In an interview with the British currents affairs
program Newsnight on March 12, 2015, Amr Darrag, a former minister
in Morsi’s cabinet and now in exile in Turkey, said he, like many others
in the movement, had been naïve. They had honestly believed that in the
twenty-first century, it would be impossible for the Egyptian military to
overthrow Egypt’s democratically elected president while the West looked
on and did absolutely nothing. But that is exactly what did happen. Morsi
did not make it to the end of his first year in office.
In ousting him, the Egyptian military had an unlikely ally: large num-
bers of the Egyptian people.
So, what went wrong for President Muhammad Morsi?

Supporters of the Brotherhood will say he never had a chance.
According to this view, the military “deep state” in Egypt never lost its
grip on power in spite of the Brotherhood’s victories in the parliamentary
and presidential elections. All the key institutions of the state—the police,
the military, the judiciary, the media, even the religious luminaries at al-
Azhar—were appointees of the old regime and their loyalties still lay with
Mubarak and the military. The generals were simply biding their time,
paying lip service to democracy while waiting for the opportunity to step
in and show Morsi the door.
To do this, they had the backing of the old order across the region.
In the interests of securing stability (i.e. preserving their own power),
the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates had already
helped put down the uprising in Bahrain. They were ready to do the same
in Egypt because if the democratic experiment in Egypt worked, people
in the Gulf might very well want to try it too.
Opponents of this view will say President Morsi misinterpreted his
mandate. He was elected by a combination of Brotherhood supporters
and liberals who lent him their support to keep the military out of power.
According to this view, the president once in power governed solely on
behalf of the Brotherhood, assumed the right to speak for Islam, intro-
duced a constitution that was too heavily weighted towards religion, and
forgot he was president of all Egyptians.
The cracks began to show in the fall of 2012. Members of the National
Salvation Front, an umbrella group of different parties, were alarmed by
the president’s decision on November 22, 2012, to issue a decree placing
himself beyond the power of the courts. Morsi’s aim was to protect the
new democratic constitution from judicial interference. Almost all of the
judiciary were appointed by Mubarak and Morsi believed they were work-
ing against him. He promised to revoke the decree after the referendum
on the constitution. But Morsi’s opponents feared the accumulation of so
much power in one person’s hands and they called the decree “Pharaoh’s
Law.” Under public pressure, the decree was revoked.
But the incident suggested some of the secular groups who had
voted for Morsi were experiencing “buyers’ remorse.” There was also a
growing sense among some of the young revolutionaries that they had
lost control of their revolution. They had been responsible for organiz-
ing the demonstrations on January 25, 2011, which set the uprising in
motion, yet it was the Muslim Brotherhood who reaped the political
rewards.
Discontent grew throughout 2013 and culminated in mass protests
against Morsi at the end of June. The military seized the moment, forced
Morsi out of office and arrested him. A wide range of Egyptians including
members of the National Salvation Front, the youth movement Tamarrod,
large numbers of Egypt’s Coptic Christian community, women’s groups,
and Salafist parties (who are more Islamist than the Brotherhood) took to
the streets on July 23, 2013—the anniversary of Nasser’s coup in 1952—to
show their approval of the military’s actions.
Many Egyptians did not approve, however. And they do not under-
stand why so many of their fellow citizens willingly helped the military
back into power. Consequently, from the summer of 2013, Egypt has
become a deeply divided country.
There are divisions, too, within the anti-Morsi camp: the protests
which led to the coup were not a case of a simple binary choice between
the military or the Muslim Brotherhood. Many protestors wanted Morsi
out but wanted a wholly new system with more robust institutions to
replace him.
The divisions in Egyptian society have deepened even further since
the crackdown against the Muslim Brotherhood that started in the sum-
mer of 2013. And General Abdel Fattah el-Sisi’s victory in the presidential
elections of 2014, which were far from free and certainly not fair, has done
nothing to address those divisions. If anything, he seems determined to
make them worse, as if by dividing he really will conquer. (Sisi’s opponent
in the run-off round, Hamdeen Sabbahi, polled nearly ten million votes
in the presidential elections of 2012 but saw his vote mysteriously drop to
under one million in 2014, making him come third in a two-horse race:
there were more spoiled votes than votes for him.)
There is a strange contradiction about the Egyptian military’s overly
aggressive role in politics and their seizure of power on the back of a tank:
the military actually has supporters in Egypt. Ahmad Shafiq’s vote in the
elections of 2012 showed that. But the military leadership clearly do not
believe they have sufficient support to risk going to the polls in a free and
fair contest and, like the colonels of old, their concern is less with win-
ning power than with exercising it and enjoying the privileges of it. Since
the coup, they have therefore rolled back any democratic progress made
since the Arab Spring and have reinstated the one-party military state
that Nasser built.
All of which means there is no room in the new Egypt for dissent. The
repression began with the Muslim Brotherhood but, in a chilling echo of
Pastor Niemoller’s famous words about the Nazis, it has not ended with
them. Everyone from the leader of the April 6 Movement which helped
start the revolution to journalists from al-Jazeera, teenage schoolgirls
protesting on the sidewalk in Alexandria, and gay men minding their
own business—all of these people and many, many more now find them-
selves on the wrong side of power. Under el-Sisi, Egypt is believed to have
somewhere in the region of twenty thousand political prisoners. The gap
between power and the people is as wide, if not wider, than ever.
The coup in Egypt reverberated around the region.

The old order was back in business. The crowned heads of the Gulf and
the Arab presidents-for-life had never wanted to see democracy thrive in
the region. If it did, they risked losing everything.
Allegations would later surface that the mass protests of June 2013 in
Cairo were not quite the spontaneous demonstrations they appeared to
be. The United Arab Emirates were said to have funded secular groups
to oppose President Morsi, Saudi money was said to have financed anti-
Morsi media companies, and the fuel shortages in June 2013 that pre-
cipitated the protests were rumored to have been deliberately planned to
damage President Morsi.
It was not just Arab heads of state who were happy to see Morsi go and
the military return to power. Media reports suggested Israel had lobbied
the US Congress and EU member states not to cut aid to Cairo in the wake
of the coup. In the interests of security, Israel preferred to see a president
in Cairo who would maintain the status quo and honor the Camp David
Accords. Israel also wanted to undermine Hamas. Morsi, as a Muslim
Brother himself, had already shown himself much too supportive of his
Palestinian colleagues for Israel’s liking. During the 2012 Israeli offen-
sive on Gaza, Morsi took a strong stance in support of the Palestinians.
In the 2008 war, Mubarak had shut the border crossing at Rafah, set the
security forces on anyone who protested against the decision, then left
the Palestinians to fend for themselves. In 2012, Morsi sent his Prime
Minister Hisham Qandil to Gaza while the territory was under attack to
show the Palestinians they were not alone. (It says a lot about the Egyptian
military’s priorities that one of the first acts after the coup was to close
the border with Gaza, again leaving the Palestinians to it. In 2015, Egypt
became the first Arab state to label Hamas a terrorist organization.)
For the State of Israel, a country which takes pride in its democratic
credentials, the decision to side with a dictator over a democrat was an
issue of security. But will it prove to be a massive miscalculation? Israeli
strategists have a depth of knowledge about the rest of the region that
outflanks anything similar in the countries of their Western allies. That
knowledge has deep roots. The study of Islam as an academic pursuit was
pioneered in Europe by a Hungarian Jew, Ignaz Goldziher. In the early
twentieth century, many of the leading scholars of Islam were Jewish.
That pursuit of knowledge carried on after the State of Israel was created.
Israeli security analysts study Arabic and Islam in a way that their Arab
counterparts do not study Hebrew or Judaism. That gives Israel an infor-
mation edge when it comes to analyzing and anticipating what their Arab
neighbors might do next and preparing how to respond.
In this instance, however, it is not clear how effective Israel’s decision
will prove to be in the long run. There are already signs that it could turn
out to be counterproductive. President Morsi did not revoke the Camp
David Accords. He did not recall his ambassador from Tel Aviv. He did
not expel the Israeli ambassador to Cairo. But since he was ousted, there
has been a massive upsurge in jihadi violence in northern Sinai where

groups affiliated to ISIL have been killing Egyptian soldiers by the score
because they regard el-Sisi as illegitimate. But ISIL will not stop in Egypt:
the Levant in their name includes historic Palestine. Northern Sinai is
adjacent to Israel’s long southern border and it is therefore ISIL’s closest
access point to Israel. Israel, in its bid to secure the status quo, may have
indirectly helped create the circumstances where Sinai becomes a launch
pad for attacks against its citizens.
Israel’s Western allies also welcomed the return of the military to
power in Egypt. This was a decision that, at best, was fraught with contra-
dictions and, at worst, smacked of double standards. On Libya, the UK,
the US, and France secured a UN Security Council Resolution (1973) to
allow for the protection of civilians from Colonel Gaddafi’s militias. The
Western powers then stretched that resolution to its limits—according to
the Russians, they broke four different clauses—so they could participate
in the military campaign to bring down Gaddafi. The same three coun-
tries lobbied for a similar resolution against Bashar al-Asad but Russia, as
a long-time ally of Syria and still smarting over the Libyan resolution, was
not about to abstain again and allow another Western-sponsored resolu-
tion to pass. Moscow threatened to use its veto. The resolution never went
through and the Syrians have been left to suffer the consequences of the
world’s inaction.
In these two cases, the UK, the US, and France had no long-term strate-
gic relationship with either Asad or Gaddafi. Egypt was entirely different.
The second biggest recipient of US aid and a strategic defense partner in
the region, Cairo was firmly in the West’s camp. General el-Sisi promised
to keep it there. Washington had never been sure that President Morsi,
with his Islamist agenda, would do the same. American military aid to
Egypt was fully restored in 2015.
* * *
The Arab Spring showed that Muslims had had enough of being dictated
to and wanted the right to speak for themselves. The large numbers of
Christians in the Middle East also wanted the right to have their voices
heard. The fall of Morsi, the war in Syria, and the unraveling security
situation in the region have enabled the established order to reclaim the
ground they lost during the Arab Spring and to entrench their counter-
revolution. They, once again, claim the right to speak for Islam. Their
Western allies, for reasons of self-interest, have supported them.
In the twenty-first-century Middle East, democracy still comes a very
distant second to long-entrenched interests.
Epilogue
Untangling the Web:

What Now?
T he Middle East is currently going through one of the most turbulent

periods in its history. States are collapsing before our eyes, and every
time you switch on the news, it seems as if another suicide bomb has
exploded in another city and another war has started in another coun-
try. Each day, the human suffering scales new heights. No one knows
for sure how many people have been killed, injured, or displaced in the
recent wars. The optimism of the Arab Spring now seems a very distant
memory.
The causes of all these conflicts are not new. They go back to the First
World War and the end of the Ottoman era when the Great Powers of
Europe imposed their will on the Middle East with their lines on a map
and their nation-states. That postwar settlement established a political
order that left so many questions unanswered and so many issues unre-
solved. For decades, those questions and those issues were swept to one
side as the kings and colonels who ruled the region pursued their own
agendas and furthered their own interests. They kept the people firmly
shut out of power. The political leaders of the West, who had so much
to say about the democratic rights of people in the Communist Bloc,
turned a blind eye when it came to the rights of people of the Middle
East. Their concern to secure stability in the region trumped all other
considerations.
The Arab Spring brought the Arab people back into the equation.
When the iron grip of dictatorship loosened, the questions that had been
sidelined for so long suddenly demanded answers. Questions about the
legitimacy of the states created after the First World War and the nature
of politics in those states.
The great hope of the Arab Spring was that the quest to find answers
to these questions could be done peacefully through the democratic
process. But the fact that a number of leaders intervened to thwart the
will of the people (and did so with the backing of other Arab leaders while
the West looked on) has set the democratic process back indefinitely. By
their actions, these rulers have shown they will not tolerate any change
in the region because it might threaten their own interests. That means
if anything is going to change in the Middle East, everything will have
to change. In the meantime, the gap between power and the people is
being filled by violent jihadi groups like ISIL who have no interest at all
in democracy and no interest in anyone who does not agree with their
philosophy.
In essence, all the problems in the Middle East come down to that one
core issue—the massive gap between power and the people. Until that is
resolved, until the people of the Middle East feel they have a stake in the
governance of the Middle East, until they are left alone to work out how
to achieve it, what is going on now will continue. And the gap between
power and the people will continue to be filled by the status quo of kings,
generals, and sheikhs on the one hand and the likes of ISIL on the other.
Except that each new incarnation of the extremist ideology will be more
violent than the last.
Democracy has many disappointments, but its greatest strength is that
if you have a president or a prime minister whose policies you do not sup-
port, you have the consolation that in four years’ time, you will have the
chance to vote them out. Until the people of the Middle East have that
chance too, it is hard to see how any of the major challenges facing the
region will be resolved.
Notes
1 Sarajevo: Sunday, June 28, 1914
1. Strachan, First World War, 3.

2. Ibid., 3; Gilbert, First World War, 17.
3. I am grateful to Professor Alan Jones for drawing the story of Colonel Redl to
my attention.
4. Gilbert, op. cit., 14.
5. Finkel, Osman’s Dream, 21.
7. Ibid., 16–7; Strachan, op. cit., 9.
2 The British Empire and the Arab World:

Ambition, Austerity, and a Class Apart
1. Hitti, History of the Arabs, 722–6.

2. Hopwood, Egypt, 12–3.
3. See Owen, Middle East in the World Economy, chapters 2, 3, 5, and 9, for
Egypt’s economy during this period.
4. Hitti, op. cit., 750.
5. Morris, Heaven’s Command, 420.
7. Lapidus, History of Islamic Societies, 516–7.
8. McMillan, Fathers and Sons, 91–2.
9. Morris, Pax Britannica, 244–5.
10. Lapidus, op. cit., 516; Morris, ibid., 246.
11. Kedourie, Politics in the Middle East, 157.
12. Montague, When Friday Comes, 2–3, 8–9.
13. Hopwood, op. cit., 13.
14. See Said, Out of Place, and Said Makdisi, Teta, Mother and Me, for an inside
view of the impact of European education on Arabs.
15. Morris, Pax Britannica, 245.
16. Ibid., 515.
238 NOTES
3 The French Empire and the Arab World: From

the Crusades to the Civilizing Mission
1. Lapidus, op. cit., 587.

2. Ibid., 587–8.
3. Maupassant, Bel-Ami, 28.
4. Lapidus, op. cit., 587. See also Norwich, The Middle Sea, 497.
6. Ibid., 643.
7. Ibid., 743.
8. Sebag Montefiore, Jerusalem, 312.
9. Ibid., 318; Norwich, op. cit., 429.
10. Quoted from Norwich, ibid., 498.
12. Ibid., 589.
13. Ibid., 588–9.
14. Ibid., 588.
15. Ibid., 589–90.
16. Hitti, op. cit., 747–8. See also Said Makdisi, op. cit., 156, 176, and 186.
17. Owen, op. cit., chapters 6 and 10.
18. Hitti, op. cit., 734–6.
4 The Russian Empire and the Arab World:

Religion, Royalty, and the New Rome
1. Figes, Natasha’s Dance, 300.

2. MacCulloch, A History of Christianity, 522–3.
3. Sebag Montefiore, op. cit., 311.
4. Finkel, op. cit., 377–9; McMillan, op. cit., 79–80.
5. Said Makdisi, op. cit., 163.
6. Elon, Israelis, 50–1. As Barnet Litvinoff points out in The Burning Bush, the
Jewish community was obliged to put forward a number of men as a percent-
age of the population for military service (ten out of every 1,000). This was
a much higher quota than that for what he calls “true” Russians who had to
provide four men per 7,000. The results of recruitment of the Jews were also
unfair: rich people were able to buy their sons out of it, while the poor were
left to make up the numbers: The Burning Bush, 154–5.
7. Lewis, Jews of Islam, 6–9.
5 The German Empire and the Arab World:

Family Feuds and Eastern Ambitions
1. Hobsbawn, Age of Empire, 46–7, 174, 175, 178, 342, 345.

2. Ibid., 351.
3. Finkel, op. cit., 528.
NOTES 239
6 The Ottoman Empire: How the Arab World

Was Won and Lost
1. Finkel, op. cit., 2. Similar stories were told of the Prophet Muhammad.
Osman in Arabic is Uthman, which became Ottoman in English.
2. McMillan, op. cit., 71–5.
3. Ibid., 21–6.
4. Aburish, House of Saud, 31.
5. Imber, Ottoman Empire, 125.
6. Ibid., 249.
8. Quataert, Ottoman Empire, 78–9. See also Finkel, op. cit., 127–8.
9. I am grateful to Professor Alan Jones for drawing my attention to this.
10. Said Makdisi, op. cit., 150, 152, and 176.
11. These changes were also reflected in Ottoman law. See chapter 9, this
volume.
12. Sebag Montefiore, op. cit., 342–3.
13. Owen, op. cit., 100–10.
14. Finkel, op. cit., 527–8.
15. Fromkin, Peace to End All Peace, 54–5.
7 London: Tuesday, December 21, 1915
1. For detailed and highly readable background studies of both men, see Barr,
A Line in the Sand, 7–19 and 20–36.
2. Ibid., 8.
3. Fromkin, op. cit., 146.
4. Ibid., 146.
5. Ibid.
6. Barr, op. cit., 9.
8. Ibid., 146.
9. Strachan, op. cit., 100.
10. The father was a founder of the Comité de l’Afrique Française. The son,
Charles, was treasurer of the Comité de l’Asie Française. See Barr, op. cit., 20,
and Fromkin, op. cit., 190.
11. Barr, op. cit., 20–1.
13. Ibid., 191.
14. Ibid., 197.
16. The Russian side fell out of the equation when they left the war on November
8, 1917.
17. Danahar, The New Middle East, 395.
18. Gilbert, op. cit., 123, 541.
240 NOTES
19. Ibid., 541.

20. Fromkin, op. cit., 166; McMillan, op. cit., 93.
21. Ismael and Ismael, Continuity and Change, 1.
8 The Arab World before the War:

The Facts on the Ground
1. Cesari, Why the West Fears Islam, 307.

2. Ibid., 309.
4. Quran 2:256. The translation is from Jones, 58.
5. See Lewis, op. cit., for a detailed study of the position of Jews in the Islamic
world.
7. Lewis, op. cit., 42–3.
8. This is a brief overview of the diverse nature of Islam. For a more detailed
account, see Hitti, op. cit., chapter 30 “Moslem Sects,” 429–49.
9. Tribal identities remained important enough that there was a view among the
early caliphs and their supporters that only someone from the Prophet’s tribe
of Quraysh was eligible to lead the community, a view that would appear to
contradict the egalitarianism of Islam.
10. McMillan, Mecca, 102–13, 116–25, 144–58.
11. For details of the many dynasties that have ruled the Middle East, see Hitti,
op. cit., 450–60, 461–83, 505–11, 520–5, 537–56, 617–24, 671–682, 709–18.
12. For studies on the Umayyad era, see Blankinship, The End of the Jihad
State; Hawting, First Dynasty of Islam; McMillan, The Meaning of Mecca ;
Wellhausen, Arab Kingdom.
14. Leverett, Inheriting Syria, 2.
15. Hitti, op. cit., 155–9.
16. Al-Tabari, Tarikh II, 272–389.
17. In Kufa, a movement arose called the Tawwabun, or Penitents, because of
this guilt. It did not last long in the face of the Umayyad armies, but it showed
the strength of feeling about leaving al-Husayn to his fate. See al-Tabari, op.
cit., II 497–513, 538–71.
19. Al-Tabari, op. cit., III 84–6, 99–119, 330.
20. Al-Yaqubi, Tarikh, II 289–90. See also Hitti, op. cit., 285–6. One member of
the family did survive to fight another day—a grandson of the caliph Hisham
named Abd al-Rahman. He escaped from Palestine through North Africa
(where he had tribal connections) to Spain where his descendants founded a
new Umayyad caliphate in the tenth century.
21. Al-Tabari, op. cit., III 319–26.
NOTES 241
22. The Cordoba caliphate belonged to the Umayyad family (929–1031), see
note 20; the Cairo caliphate to the Fatimid family (969–1171).
9 The Remaking of the Middle East:

Enter the Nation-State
1. Reynolds, The Long Shadow, 5.

2. Lewis, op. cit., 156–8, 168.
3. Ibid., 158. The incident drew the attention—and intervention—of Britain
and France. Britain saw itself as the protector of the Jewish community and
intervened to help. France’s intervention was more of a hindrance to the local
Jewish community. The French Consul in Damascus used the situation to
condemn local Jews.
4. Ismael and Ismael, op. cit., 80–1. See also chapter 6, this volume.
5. Lapidus, op. cit., 498–9.
6. Quataert, op. cit., 190.
10 From Sykes-Picot to the Treaty of Sèvres: Betrayals,

Backstabbing, and Broken Promises

2. For a more detailed account of the full range of diplomatic double-crossing
that went on between Britain and France over the future of the Middle East
right up until the 1940s, see Barr, op. cit.
3. Fromkin, op. cit., 336–8.
4. Barr, op. cit., 124–5.
5. Trotsky published details of the Sykes-Picot-Sazanov correspondence on
November 27, 1917, in a bid to embarrass Russia’s former rulers and the
Allies.
6. Litvinoff, op. cit., 260–2.
8. The Treaty of Brest-Litovsk was signed with Germany on March 3, 1918.
9. Fromkin, op. cit., 271, 285.
10. Ibid., 297.
11 The Poisoned Legacy and the War’s

Unanswered Questions
1. Ismael and Ismael, op. cit., 190 (emphasis added).

242 NOTES
12 Wheret oB egin?

2. Al-Tabari, op. cit., II 201 and II 1464–6.
13 Jerusalem: The Temple Mount

2. MacCulloch, op. cit., 107; Sebag Montefiore, op. cit., 134.
3. Ibid., 137.
4. Litvinoff, op. cit., 21.
5. Ibid., 30.
6. Cook and Herzman, Medieval World View, 68–9.
8. MacCulloch, op. cit., 92.
9. Ibid., 93, citing John 18: 31.
10. Ibid., 93, citing Matthew 27: 24–5.
13. Ibid., 60.
14. Ibid., 61.
15. Ibid., 130.
16. Ibid., 210.
17. Chaney, Chanel, 311.
18. Appelfeld, The Age of Wonders, 132.
19. Ibid., 135.
20. Ibid., 133.
21. Gellately, Backing Hitler, 12.
22. Ibid., 257.
23. Ibid., 27–8.
24. Gilbert, op. cit., 447. This was on August 4, 1918. Hitler had previously been
awarded the Iron Cross, Second Class, back in 1914.
25. This story of Edwin Landau and his experiences is taken from Gellately,
op. cit., 28.
26. Chaney, op. cit., 335–6.
27. Némirovsky, Suite Française, 246.
28. Elon, op. cit., 96–7.
29. Achcar, Arabs and the Holocaust, 18.
30. Ibid., 18.
31. Elon, op. cit., 22.
33. Danahar, op. cit., 145.
34. Sebag Montefiore, op. cit., 492–3.
NOTES 243
14 Jerusalem: The Noble Sanctuary
1. From 661 to 750.

2. Al-Tabari, op. cit., II 1172–3.
3. Ibid., II 577. Other sources suggest the assassin was a slave girl acting on the
orders of Marwan’s disgruntled wife.
4. See McMillan, Mecca, 79–81.
5. Al-Yaqubi, op. cit., II 177–8. See also Ibn Kathir, Bidayah, VIII 280–1.
6. The source is al-Yaqubi. See McMillan, Mecca , 80, note 26, for the debate on
this subject.
7. Guillaume, Muhammad, 289. It happened 18 months after Muhammad’s
hijra from Mecca in 622.
8. Quran 3: 67. See also 5: 15, 19, and 48.
9. See Quran 2: 92.
10. See Quran 2: 40, 41, 83–4, 87, 92, 93, 122; 4: 155, 160; 5: 13; 20: 80, 82.
11. See Quran 4: 171; 19: 88–92.
12. See Quran 4: 163–4; 19: 58.
13. See Quran 2: 40, 47, 122; 5: 69; 45: 16.
14. See also Quran 5: 51, 64, and 69. See also Quran 2: 88–96, 122, and 211.
15. These English translations come from the translation by Alan Jones, 113.
Many translations of the Quran are difficult to read. This one is not; it does
not read like a translation. In addition, it comes with equally easy-to-read
explanatory notes.
16. Armstrong, Muhammad, 183.
17. Ibid., 207.
18. Ibid., 207–8.
19. Lewis, op. cit., 33.
20. Ibid., 19; see also 53 and 62.
21. Al-Tabari, op. cit., II 4.
22. Ibid., III 129.
23. Ibid., III 500.
24. Hitti, op. cit., 220–1.
26. Maalouf, The Crusades through Arab Eyes, ii.
27. Ibid., 53.
28. Ibid., 198.
30. Bloom and Blair, Art and Architecture of Islam , 92–3.
31. Ibid., 224.
33. These figures come from Achcar, op. cit., 18.
34. Ibid., 19.
35. This sense of uncertainty is very well captured in Deborah Rohan’s The Olive
Grove.
244 NOTES
15 Cairo: Wednesday, July 23, 1952
1. Mansfield, Nasser’s Egypt, 42.

2. See, for example, Serageldin, The Cairo House, 41–2.
3. Mansfield, op. cit., 30.
4. Hopwood, Egypt, 30.
6. Ibid., 43.
8. Ibid., 35.
9. Calvert, Sayyid Qutb, 53–101.
16 The Kings, the Colonels, and the Political

Time Warp: The Return of the Middle Ages
1. For a more detailed discussion of the issues raised here, see McMillan,
Fathers and Sons.
2 . See, for example, 5: 18, 17: 111, and 25: 2. I am grateful to Professor
Alan Jones for drawing my attention to these references. See McMillan,
op. cit., 5–7.
3. Ibid., 5.
4. Ibid., 56.
5. Al-Tabari, op. cit., III 1368–70. See also 1372–3.
6. Ibid., III 1370, 1372–3, 1377–9, 1384–7, 1455–65, 1471–2. See also McMillan,
op. cit., 59–60; and Miah, Al-Mutawakkil, 19–21.
7. Al-Tabari, op. cit., III 1697.
8. Hitti, op. cit., 461–83.
9. Holt, Age of the Crusades, 99, 142–3; McMillan, op. cit., 67.
11. Reynolds, op. cit., 47.
12. For a detailed study of Britain’s relations with the elite of their empire, see
David Cannadine’s fascinating book Ornamentalism.
13. Halliday, Arabia without Sultans, 272, 279.
14. Lapidus, op. cit., 597. See also 595–6.
15. McMillan, op. cit., 114.
19. See, for example, van Dam, Struggle for Power in Syria, 29–74.
NOTES 245
17 I Am the State: Power, Politics, and

the Cult of Personality

2. Ibid., 116.
3. Halliday, op. cit., 274–80, in particular 275.
4. Serageldin, op. cit., 90.
6. Mansfield, op. cit., 51–2.
7. Ismael and Ismael, op. cit., 351.
8. Aburish, Brutal Friendship, 72.
9. Rasheed, History of Saudi Arabia, 131.
10. See Oufkir, La Prisonnière: Twenty Years in a Desert Gaol .
13. Ibid.
14. Ibid., 570.
15. Halliday, op. cit., 105–8, 109–18.
16. Ibid., 227–59; Lapidus, op. cit., 571; McMillan, op. cit., 113.
17. Shlaim, Israel, Palestine and the Arab Uprisings, 391, in Gerges, ed. The New
Middle East.
18. Elon, op. cit., 298. Elon, op. cit., 296, also points out a number of factors why
Israel might have ended up as an authoritarian state, the first of which is the
security situation, and shows how this did not end up being the case.
19. Ibid., 294.
20. Al-Aswany, On the State of Egypt, 45.
18 The Problem of Absolute Power:

From Stability to Stagnation
1. Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon,

Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H. Bush, and Bill
Clinton.
3. Ibid., 128.
4. Ismael and Ismael, op. cit., 255. See also Leverett, op. cit., 83–4.
5. Owen, Arab Presidents for Life, 161–71.
6. Ibid., 163.
19 Mecca: Tuesday, November 20, 1979
1. Al-Rasheed, op. cit., 18.

2. Ibid., 66.
246 NOTES
3. Hiro, Islamic Fundamentalism, 128.

4. Ibid.
5. Calvert, op. cit., 261.
6. Ibid.
7. Keppel, Jihad, 50–2; Atwan, Secret History, 42.
8. Hiro, op. cit., 129.
9. Ibid.
10. Trofimov, Siege of Mecca, 23.
11. Al-Baladhuri, Futuh, 28; al-Yaqubi, op. cit., II 47. The caliph Umar (r. 634–44)
expelled some of the Jewish and Christian communities from the peninsula,
but Arabia remained home to many Jews (especially in Yemen) until the
twentieth century.
12. Aburish’s book, The House of Saud, explains this in detail.
13. The translation is from Jones, op. cit., 47.
14. This quotation is taken from Hiro, op. cit., 133.
15. Trofimov, op. cit., 226.
16. Ruthven, Islam in the World, 32.
17. Trofimov, op. cit., 239.
20 1979: The View from Tehran

3. Ibid.; Ismael and Ismael, 121.
4. Hiro, op. cit., 147–8.
5. Sharon, Black Banners, 33. See also McMillan, Mecca, 33.
6. McMillan, Fathers and Sons, 55, 149–50.
7. Ibid., 150.
9. Kedourie, op. cit., 337, 339.
11. Hiro, op. cit., 150.
13. Ibid., 124.
14. Hiro, op. cit., 165, 167–8.
15. Ibid., 164, 167, 168.
16. Ibid., 169.
17. Ibid., 172.
18. Ibid., 177.
19. Rasheed, op. cit., 147.
20. Ibid.
NOTES 247
21 1979: Holy War and Unholy Alliances
1. Trofimov, op. cit., 234–5.

2. Morris, Heaven’s Command, 105–12.
3. Ibid., 112.
4. Vadney, The World Since 1945, 415.
5. For a detailed study of the US–Saudi relationship, see Bronson, Thicker
than Oil.
7. Atwan, Country of Words, 218.
8. Ibid. For the interview with Bin Laden, see Atwan’s Secret History, 15–37.
22 The Arab Spring and the Democratic Alternative
1. Gerges, op. cit., 14, note 28.

2. The issue of Gulf money invested in the West is dealt with in greater detail in
Christopher Davidson’s After the Sheikhs and in Kristian Coates Ulrichsen’s
excellent The Gulf States in International Political Economy.
3. Filiu, The Arab Revolution, 5–16; Danahar, op. cit., 20–1; Gerges, op. cit.,
21–4.
4. Calvert, Sayyid Qutb, 81.
5. Tamimi, Hamas: Unwritten Chapters, 4.
6. Calvert, op. cit., 119–20.
7. Ibid., 120.
8. Lapidus, op. cit., 606; McMillan, op. cit., 2.
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Index
Abbas I, Pasha of Egypt, 15 Agadir, 52–3

Abbas II, Khedive of Egypt, 22 Age of Wonders, The, 119–20
Abbasid dynasty, 81, 86–7, 135–6, 155, Aghlabid dynasty, 157
171, 178, 209 al-Ahly Football Club, 21
Abd al-Aziz, King of Saudi Arabia Ahmad, Qajar Shah of Iran, 202, 206
(also known as Ibn Saud), 196 Ahmad Fuad, King of Egypt, 149
Abd al-Malik, Umayyad Caliph, Aida, 16
129–30, 134–6, 154–5 Alawi ruling family, 36
Abd al-Qadir, 26–7, 31 See also under Morocco
Abd al-Wahhab, Muhammad ibn, Albania, 11
195–6 Albert, Prince of England, 47
Abdulhamid I, Ottoman Sultan, 42, 65 Alexander II, Tsar of Russia, 44
Abdulhamid II, Ottoman Sultan, 18, Alexander III, Tsar of Russia, 40, 44
51, 64 Alexander the Great, 29, 80, 214
Abdullah II, King of Jordan, 97, 162, Alexandra, Queen of England, 39–40
185, 188 Alexandria, 19, 30, 114–15, 147–9, 151,
Abdullah, Amir of Transjordan/King 175, 232
of Jordan, 97, 162, 185 Algeciras, 36–7, 52, 74
Abdullah, King of Saudi Arabia, 190 Algeria
Abdulmajid I, Ottoman Sultan, 15, French occupation of, 25–7, 30–6,
62, 90 62, 79, 159, 163
Abdulmajid II, Ottoman Sultan, 158 Islamist election victory, 228–9
Aboukir Bay, Battle of, 29 jihad, 217
Abraham, prophet, 131, 134, 154 military state, 176–7
Abu Bakr, Rightly Guided Caliph, 42 War of Independence, 160–1, 163
Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, 73 Ali, Rightly Guided Caliph, 79
Acre, 28, 30 Alice, Princess of England, 40
Aden, 19, 56, 71, 178, 180 Alice in Wonderland, 24
Aelia Capitolina, 113, 116 Alix of Hesse, Tsarina of Russia, 40
Afghanistan, 39, 78, 213–19 Aliyah (migration to Israel), 45
Africa Allenby, Sir Edmund (Lord), 95
European involvement in, 16, 21, Allies, the, 65, 73, 75, 93–4, 105, 122–3
26, 30, 50, 59, 71 Alsace-Lorraine, 32, 35, 74, 119
North Africa, 4, 31, 35–6, 52, 56, 63, al-Amin, Abbasid Caliph, 155
80, 95, 159, 161, 163, 222 Amin, Hafizullah, 213
260 INDEX
amsar (garrison cities), 80 al-Asad, Rifat, 187

Anglo-Egyptian Treaty, 148–9 Ashkenazim, 184
Anglo-Iranian Oil Company, 207 Ashura, 211
Anglo-Iranian Treaty, 207 Asquith, Herbert, 70
Anglo-Iraqi Treaty, 96–7, 162 Aswan Dam, 20, 174
Anglo-Saudi Treaty, 160 al-Aswany, Alaa, 184
Antioch, 28 Asyut, 149
anti-Semitism, 116, 119, 122, 133 Atwan, Abdel Bari, 219
Appelfeld, Aharon, 119–20 Auschwitz, 122, 126
April 6 Movement, 232 Austria, 9, 105, 120
Aqaba, 95 Austro-Hungarian Empire, 9–14, 53,
Arab Exceptionalism, 224–5, 230 93, 105
Arab Revolt, 94–5 See also under Habsburg Empire
Arab Spring Ayyubid dynasty, 137–8, 157–8
Arab Exceptionalism, end of, al-Azhar, 29, 198, 230
224–5, 230
Bouazizi, Muhammad, 221–2 Baath Party, 97, 177, 211
economic backdrop to, 222 Bab al-Mandab, 179
old order’s response to, 1–5, 225, Babylon, 44, 87, 109, 114
230–6 Baghdad
political backdrop to, 223–30 Berlin-Baghdad Railway, 51, 71
wars after, 1, 235 British involvement in, 84, 88
West’s response to, 3, 235–6 capital of Arab world, 5, 42, 51,
Arabia 81–2, 87–8, 136, 178, 209
British Empire’s involvement in, ISIL, 4
93–4, 160 Jewish community in, 114
early Islam, 78, 81 Ottoman Empire, province of, 56
Jewish community in, 132 Soviet influence in, 211
oil in, 167 Sunnism in, 86–8
Ottoman Empire, province of, 56 Bagram, 213
Prophet Muhammad, 199 Bahrain
Shi‘ism in, 86, 178 Arab Spring, crackdown after, 2–4,
See also under Saudi Arabia, 170, 211, 222, 231
Kingdom of British Empire, relations with, 19
Arabian Nights, 87 independence, 161
Arian Christianity, 115, 133–4 Islam in, 85
Arif, Abd al-Salam, 162 Khalifa ruling family, 2, 19, 161, 167
al-Arish, 147 oil in, 167
Arius, Bishop of Alexandria, 115 Shi‘ism in, 86, 178
Ark of the Covenant, 113 See also under Khalifa ruling family
Armenia, 106, 120 Balfour, Lord, 98
Army Corps (Austria), 11 Balfour Declaration, 97–8, 124, 138–9
al-Asad, Bashar, 3, 186, 222, 234 Balian, 137
al-Asad, Basil, 186 Balkans, 5, 11–12, 35, 43, 62, 105
al-Asad, Hafiz, 164, 186–9, 211, 228 Balzac, Honoré de, 31
INDEX 261
Bandung Conference, 174 Brezhnev, Leonid, 213

al-Banna, Hasan, 150, 225–7 British Empire
Baraka, Mamluk Sultan, 158 French Empire, relations with,
Barghouti, Dr. Mustafa, 141 36–7, 39, 46, 52–3, 63, 98
Baring, Evelyn (Lord Cromer), 20 German Empire, relations with, 47,
See also under Cromer, Lord 49–51, 53
Barings Bank, 20 Middle East and North Africa,
Basra, 56, 80, 84–8, 196 carve-up of, 69–75, 84–5, 87–8,
Baybars, Mamluk Sultan, 158 93–6, 99, 101–6, 109
bazaaris, 203, 207 Middle East and North Africa,
Beersheba, 150, 226 takeover of, 14, 17–24, 26, 29, 34,
Begin, Menachem, 125, 184 36, 148, 150, 159–60, 162–3, 181,
Bel-Ami, 27 202, 206–7, 214
Belgium, 14, 206 Ottoman Empire, relations with,
Belgrade, 13–14, 56 62–3, 65
Bell, Gertrude, 96 Palestine, 138–40
Ben Ali, Zine El Abidine, 186, 221, royal marriage alliances, 10, 47
229 Russian Empire, relations with,
Ben Arous Hospital, 221 39–40, 46, 52, 63
Ben Bella, Ahmad, 161 Zionism, 97–8, 124–5
Ben Yehuda, 123 See also under London, United
Ben-Gurion, David, 125, 183 Kingdom
Berlin, 14, 50–1, 53, 65 British Imperial Tobacco Company,
Berlin, Congress of, 35–6, 74 202
Berlin-Baghdad Railway, 51, 71 Bu Said ruling family, 19, 161, 167,
Bermuda, Conference of, 123 171, 185
Bethlehem, 62 See also under Oman
bida (innovation), 195 Budapest, 9, 12, 45, 56
Biqa Valley, 83 Bugeaud, General Thomas-Robert,
Bismarck, Prince Otto von, 35, 53 27, 30, 31
Black Saturday, 148 Bulgaria, 11–12, 43, 45
Black Sea, 41–2, 55–6, 60, 65 Bunsen, Sir Maurice de, 70
Black Sea Fleet, 65 Buraq, 134
blood libel, 91 bureaux arabes, 32
Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red, Burton, Sir Richard, 21
120 Byron, Lord, 62
Bloom, Orlando, 137 Byzantines, 41, 56, 88, 109, 133–4, 138
Blum, Léon, 119
Bombay (now Mumbai), 59 Cairo
Bosnia, 9, 11, 13 army in, 4, 147–52, 233–4
Bosphorus, River, 42 British in, 19–21, 29, 65, 94, 125, 148
Bouazizi, Muhammad, 221–2 capital of Arab world, 5, 42, 81–2,
Boumedienne, Houari, 161 87
Bourguiba, Habib, 163 Islam in, 80
boycott, 121–2, 126 Islamic university in, 198
262 INDEX
Cairo—Continued Churchill, Winston, 65

Nasser, 175, 189 Circassians, 78, 84
old city of, 16 civil wars, 1, 85, 104–5, 129, 164, 172
Ottoman Empire, province of, Clermont, 28
56, 60 client states, 159–62, 168, 213
See also under Egypt Clinton, Bill, 185
Caisse de la Dette (European Debt coaling stations, 19, 71
Agency), 18 code de l’indigénat, 32
caliphate Cold War
history of, 77, 80–1, 86–7, 135–7, politics of, 105, 212, 214, 219, 224
171, 202 revival of in 21st century, 1
military in, 155–7, 159 Western alliances with Arab states
political role of, 102 during, 168–9
succession in, 158–9 colonies, 20, 28, 31, 35, 96, 159–61,
symbolism of, 102, 129 178, 207
Cambridge, University of, 69 colons, 31
Cameron, David, 3 Columbus, Christopher, 59
Camp David Accords, 190, 233 Comité de l’Asie Française, 72
Canada, 121, 125 Compagnie Universelle du Canal
Cape of Good Hope, 16, 59 Maritime de Suez, 17
Capitulations, 23, 61 Constantine, Emperor, 41, 115–17, 130
Carroll, Lewis, 24 Constantine, Prince of Russia, 41
Catherine of Braganza, 59 Constantinople, 115, 134
Catherine the Great, 10, 41–3, Ottoman takeover of, 37, 40–1, 56
60–2, 90 Russian imperial obsession with,
Catholic Church, 33, 63, 70, 72, 40–1, 62
85, 117, 119 See also under Istanbul
Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), Constitutional Revolution (Iran), 206
162, 171, 173, 214 Coptic Church, 231
Ceuta, 36 Cordoba, 42, 87, 136
Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), 96 corruption, 20, 171, 187, 199
Chamber of Deputies, 33 corvée, 20, 23
chaos (as political strategy), 172, 229 Cossack Brigade, 202, 206
Charles II, King of England, 59 cotton, 17, 20, 22, 27, 34, 151
Charles X, King of France, 26 coups
Christianity Algeria, 161, 229
Islam, attitudes to, 133–4 CIA-backed, 173, 207, 213
Judaism, attitudes to, 117, 132, 134 Egypt, 4, 147–52, 156, 160, 162, 227,
Roman Empire, 114–17 231–2
sacred geography of, 114, 127, 142 France, 31
splits in, 85 history of, 156–7, 171
Christians Iran, 173, 202, 207, 213
as minority in Middle East, 33, Iraq, 97, 162
44–5, 62, 79, 84, 87, 101, 133–5, Jordan, 171
164, 172, 231, 234 Lebanon, 164
Church of the Nativity, 62 Libya, 162
INDEX 263
medical coups, 171, 229 capital of Arab world, 5, 42, 80–2

military coups, 4, 97, 156–7, 160–2, French control of, 72, 96
202, 229 Greater Syria, part of, 83, 92
Morocco, 177 independence, 163
Oman, 171 Moscow, relations with, 43
origins of, 156–7, 171 United Arab Republic, 176
palace coups, 171 Danzig, 105
Saudi Arabia, 171, 177 Darrag, Amr, 230
Syria, 163–4, 186 David, king and prophet, 154
Tunisia, 229–30 Deir Yassin, 141
Turkey, 64–5 democracy
Yemen, 179 and Islam, 154
Cox, Sir Percy, 96 in Israel, 180–2, 233
Crane, Charles, 98 lack of in Arab Middle East, 158–9,
Crimea 191, 230–6
Russia, strategic importance for, quest for in Arab Middle East, 1,
41–2 221–2, 225, 228–30, 234–6
war of 1768–74, 42 West’s attitude to in Middle East, 3,
war of 1853–6, 34, 46, 51, 53, 181–2, 223–4, 229, 234–6
62–3, 214 Denmark, 39, 49, 123
Cromer, Lord, 20, 22–4, 103, 223 Deraa, 1
See also under Baring, Evelyn Desert Storm, Operation, 212
Crusader states, 28, 31 Diaspora, 44, 144
Crusades Dinshaway, 23–4
French involvement in, 28–9, 72 Diriyya, 195
Jews, persecution of during, 117, 119 Disraeli, Benjamin, 17–18, 119
legacy of, 28–9, 51, 72, 83, 96, 109, Dome of the Rock, 130, 134–6, 138,
136–8 156
Muslims, persecution of during, Dreyfus, Captain Alfred, 119, 122
136 Druze, 34, 79, 83–4
Ctesiphon, 84, 86 Dual Alliance, 53
cult of personality, 170–2, 177, 209 dynasty
Cyprus, 19, 71 incompatibility with Islam, 154
Cyrenaica, 159 origins of in Islamic world, 57, 154
Cyrus the Great, 81 political organization, means of,
Czechoslovakia, 10, 104–5, 125, 214 155–9
Dachau, 121 East India Company (Dutch), 59

Dagmar, Tsarina of Russia, 39–40 East India Company (English), 59
DA‘ISH, 82 Easter, 118
See also under Islamic State of Iraq Edward VII, King, 39–40, 48
and the Levant (ISIL) Egypt
Damascus Ayyubid rulers of, 137
Arab Spring, 1 British control of, 15–24, 26–7, 33–6,
blood libel in, 91 53, 74, 93–5, 103, 159–60, 223
British ambitions for, 95 cult of personality in, 177
264 INDEX
Egypt—Continued fatwa (religious ruling), 203

democracy, overthrow of, 3–4, Faysal I, King of Iraq (son of the
230–4 sharif of Mecca), 95–7, 103, 162
democracy in, 225 Faysal II, King of Iraq, 97
Fatimid rulers of, 79 Fazzan, 159
French ambitions in, 28–9, 60 fellaheen, 149, 173–4
independence, 147–53, 160–1 Ferdinand, King of Spain, 117
Israel, wars against, 125–6, 142, 190 Final Solution, 105, 121, 124
Jewish community in, 114 Finland, 105
Mamluk rulers of, 56, 109, 138 First World War
military rule of, 138, 147–53, 157, human cost of, 74, 120
160–3 legacy for the Middle East, 69–75,
Muslim Brotherhood in, 226–30 81–8, 89–92, 93–9, 101–6
national identity of, 80, 172 origins of, 9–14
post-independence, 173–7 peace conferences after, 93–9,
presidents-for-life in, 186, 189, 221 104–6
radical Islamists in, 197, 217–18 fitna, 172
Yemen, war in, 178–80 See also under chaos (as political
Eisenhower, Dwight S., 185 strategy)
Eisenhower Doctrine, 177, 219 football, 21, 224
elections, 104, 148, 175, 177, 181, Foreign and Commonwealth Office
208–9, 212, 223, 225, 229, 230, (UK), 70–1
232 France
Elizabeth II, Queen, 40 Algeria, war against, 160–1, 163
English Channel, 19 British Empire, relations with,
Enlightenment, the, 158 36–7, 39, 46, 52–3, 63, 98
Ennahda Party, 225 civilizing mission, 27–30, 117
Entente Cordiale, 36–7, 39, 46 Crusades, role in, 27–9, 83
entitlement, political sense of, 30, German Empire, relations with, 35,
74–5, 181 50, 51, 53
Erdogan, Recep Tayyip, 230 Jewish community in, 118–19, 122
Estonia, 105 Maronite Christians, protection of,
Eugénie, Empress, 16 61, 72, 83
Euphrates, River, 80, 84 Middle East and North Africa,
European Union (EU), 4, 41, 233 carve-up of, 69–75, 84–5, 87–8,
Evian, Lake, Conference of, 123 93–6, 99, 101–6, 109
Middle East and North Africa,
Fahd, King of Saudi Arabia, 219 takeover of, 25–37, 52, 159–61,
Faisal, King of Saudi Arabia, 171, 177, 163, 181
179, 196–8 Ottoman Empire, relations with,
Falluja, 150, 226 60, 62–3, 65, 214
Farouq, King of Egypt, 147–9, 151, Revolution, 29, 33, 46, 63, 72,
156, 174 89–90, 101, 118, 158, 199
Fashoda, Battle of, 53 Russian Empire, relations with,
Fatherland Society, 91 39, 46
Fatimid dynasty, 79, 81, 158, 178, 201 See also under Paris
INDEX 265
France, Fifth Republic, 3, 229, 234 Ghazi, King of Iraq, 97

Franco-Prussian War, 32, 35, 46, 74 Gibraltar, 19, 71
Franz Ferdinand, Archduke, 9–13, 221 Glasnost, 212
Franz Josef, Emperor, 10 Golan Heights, 80, 189, 190
Frederick Barbarossa, 28, 51 Goldziher, Ignaz, 223
Free Officers Gorbachev, Mikhail, 216
Egypt, 148–52, 175, 226 Gorst, Sir Eldon, 23
Iraq, 162 Gospel of John, 116
Libya, 162 Gospel of Matthew, 116
Morocco, 177 Gospels, 45, 118
Saudi Arabia, 177 Gouraud, Henri, 72, 96
Freedom and Justice, Party of, 225 Granada, 117
Freud, Sigmund, 9 Great Powers
Fromkin, Professor David, 103 See under Austro-Hungarian,
Front de Libération Nationale British, French, German,
(FLN), 177 Ottoman and Russian Empires
Fustat, 80 Greater Syria
Anglo-French carve-up of, 94–7
Gabriel (angel), 134 ethnic make-up of, 83–4
Gaddafi, Colonel Muammar, 3, 162, French ambitions in, 72
177, 186, 189, 234 Islamic history of, 81–4, 86–7, 130,
Gallipoli, Battle of, 73 135, 137–8, 140
Gama, Vasco da, 59 See also under al-Sham, Syria
Gaza, 190, 223, 229, 233 Greece, 11, 40, 42, 62
Gellately, Professor Robert, 121 Greek War of Independence, 26
Geneva, 88 Greeks, 10, 12, 43, 45, 90, 182
Geneva Conventions, 27 Groupe de l’Intervention de la
George I, King of Greece, 40 Gendarmerie Nationale
George V, King of England, 10, 48 (GIGN), 200
Gerges, Professor Fawaz, 222 Guatemala, 125
German Empire Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC), 188
British Empire, rivalry with, 47, Gulf kingdoms, 3, 153, 155, 159–61,
49–51, 53 163, 167–9, 171, 174, 189–91, 216,
France, rivalry with, 35, 52–3, 119 224, 228, 232
geopolitical alliances, 14, 53 Gulf region, 2, 19, 71, 84–6, 88, 211,
Ottoman Empire, relations with, 219, 231
49–51 See also under Persian Gulf
royal family of, 47–9, 64 Guttman, Captain Hugo, 121
technical development of, 49–51
unification of, 12, 89 Habsburg Empire, 9–13, 42, 58, 60,
See also under Hohenzollern 105
Empire See also under Austro-Hungarian
Germany, Federal Republic of, 77–8 Empire
Germany, Third Reich, 121–4, 126, Hadrian, Emperor, 113–14, 116
141, 216 Haganah, 141
al-Ghannouchi, Rachid, 229 Hague, William, 4
266 INDEX
Haifa, 71 Jewish, 44, 45, 98, 106

Hama, 187, 228 See also under Israel, Jerusalem,
Hamad, King of Bahrain, 3, 170, 222 Palestine, Saudi Arabia
Hamas Holy of Holies, 113
Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood, Homs, 82
relations with, 4, 233 Hormuz, Strait of, 2, 211
election victory, 223, 229 House of Lords (UK), 182
Izz al-Din al-Qassam, 125, 229 Houses of Parliament (UK), 182
Jerusalem, 130 al-Hudaybi, Hassan, 175
terrorist organization, designation Hudaybiyah, Treaty of, 133
as, 223, 233 Hungary, 12–14, 53, 105, 123, 214
Hanafi school, 79 al-Husayn, Sharif of Mecca, 94
Hanbal, Ahmad ibn, 205 al-Husayn, son of Caliph Ali, 79, 85,
Hanbali school, 79 111, 211, 240n17
Haram al-Sharif, 130, 138, 143, 199, al-Husayni dynasty, 35
219 Hussein, Dey of Algeria, 26
See also under Noble Sanctuary Hussein, King of Jordan, 171, 184,
Hariri, Rafiq, 83 185, 188
al-Hasa, 86, 178, 211 Hussein, Saddam, 97, 189, 209–12,
Hasan, Sultan of Morocco, 36 214–15, 218–19, 222
Hashemi family, 94–7, 162, 169–70,
185 Ibrahim, Pasha of Egypt, 15
Hassan II, King of Morocco, 177, 185 identity
Hassan, Prince of Jordan, 188 changing nature of, 77, 82, 91,
Hebrew language, 45, 113, 120, 123, 143
124, 182, 233 communal, 65, 77
Hebron, 44 national, 45, 82–3, 88, 101, 153,
Herod, 109, 113 172, 201
Herzl, Theodor, 9–10, 45, 98, 119 politics of, 103–4
Hidden Imam, 79 religious, 79, 82, 130, 143, 164,
hijra, 132 205, 208, 225
Hindu Kush, 19, 214 tribal, 80
Hitler, Adolf, 105, 121–2, 124, 139 urban identity, 80–1
Hitti, Professor Philip, 28, 79 Idris al-Sanusi, King of Libya, 162
Hizbullah, 83 Idrisid dynasty, 157
Hohenzollern Empire, 105 Ikhwan (Saudi Arabia), 197–8
See also under German Empire al-Ikhwan al-Muslimin. See under
Holland, 14 Muslim Brotherhood
See also under Netherlands imperial overreach, 63, 214, 216
Holocaust, 105, 120, 122–4, 126, 132, Imperial Rescripts, 90–1
140–1, 183 imperialism, 21, 73–4, 159–60, 202
See also under Shoah independence
Holy Land attainment of, 11, 26, 36, 45, 99,
Christian, 22, 28, 29, 51, 72–3, 97, 106, 110, 126, 159, 160–1
106 effects of, 126, 159–60, 163–5, 170,
Islamic, 56, 106, 130, 138, 198–9 180, 182, 187, 189, 222
INDEX 267
military, role of in, 153, 159, 160–1, Jewish community in, 87, 184
163, 189 military rule of, 162, 177, 189, 214
monarchy, role of in, 161–3, 165, 189 Ottoman Empire, province of, 56
quest for, 12, 52, 62, 92, 96, 99, 102–4 Shi‘ism in, 84–5, 87–8, 178
India Sunnism in, 85–8
British imperial obsession with, 18, US-led war against, 223
39, 70–2, 202 See also under Baghdad, Basra,
British rule of, 20, 60, 95 Hussein, Saddam, Mosul
post-independence, 168, 174 Irgun, 125, 141
route to, 19, 20, 29, 54, 58–9, 70, 75, Isabella, Queen of Spain, 117
84, 160, 168, 202 Islam
UN Special Commission on Christianity, attitude to, 44–5, 61,
Palestine, 125 78–9, 90–1, 131–4, 137
Indo-China, 163 democracy, attitude to, 154, 180–2
infidels, 28, 51, 198, 214–15, 224 hereditary power, attitude to, 57,
Innocent VIII, Pope, 117 129, 154, 158, 182
Inquisition, Spanish, 117–18 identity, basis for, 77–81, 101
institutionality crisis, 170–2 Judaism, attitude to, 44–5, 61, 78–9,
International Monetary Fund (IMF), 90–1, 118, 123, 131–3, 183
4, 63 as political system, 57, 82, 90–1,
Intifada, Second, 143 101–4
Iran political use of by non-state actors,
clerics, role of in, 203–6, 208–9 213–20, 221–34
imperialism in, 202–3, 207 political use of by state actors, 169,
Iraq, relations with, 4 172, 179–80, 195–200, 201–12
Iraq War, 209–10, 212, 218 religion, 78, 114, 131
Islam in, 85 society, basis for, 12, 30–2, 61,
Islamic Revolution, 200, 201–13 77–81, 101–4
Lebanon, involvement in, 164 wars within, 85, 155–6
national identity of, 80 See also under Muhammad,
Saudi Arabia, rivalry with, 1, Prophet
210–11, 213 al-Islambouli, Khalid, 217
Shi‘ism in, 86, 203–6, 208, 210–12 Islamic Salvation Front (FIS), 229
UN Special Commission on Islamic State. See under DA‘ISH,
Palestine, 125 Islamic State of Iraq and the
US, relations with, 173, 211–12 Levant
Iraq Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant
Baath Party, 177 (ISIL)
British rule of, 71–3, 84, 87–8, 93, ideology of, 181, 196, 218, 227, 236
95–7, 99, 103–4, 153, 159 Iraq, 4, 212
Hashemi Kingdom of, 96–7, 99, 103, Kurds, fighting against, 1–2, 4
161–2 name, significance of, 84
Iran War, 209–12, 214, 218–19 Sinai, 234
ISIL, 1–2, 4, 35, 73, 82 Syria, 1–2
Islamic history of, 81–2, 84–8, 135, West, attacks against, 2
196, 203, 208 See also under DA‘ISH
268 INDEX
Ismail, Khedive of Egypt, 15–18, 22, Japan, 39

147, 149 al-Jazeera news network, 232
Ismail, Shah of Iran, 86 Jerusalem
Ismailiyya, 148, 225 Christianity, importance to, 5, 28,
Israel, Greater, 142 43, 72, 96, 112, 125, 127, 142
Israel, State of Islam, importance to, 5, 28, 56,
democracy in, 142, 180–4 80–1, 112, 125, 127, 129–42, 180,
Egypt, relations with, 4, 173–4, 190, 189
209, 217, 233–4 Judaism, importance to, 5, 44, 109,
Holocaust, legacy of for, 126 112–17, 123, 125, 127, 142, 189
narratives, battle of, 109–12 political importance of, 51, 95,
Palestinians, treatment of, 143, 130, 143
180–1, 223, 233 Roman Empire, 113–17
politics of religion in, 142 Jesuits, 72
recognition of, 44, 125 Jesus, 56, 62, 114–16, 132–4
United States, alliance with, 143–4, Jewish Agency, 140
216, 219, 224, 229 Jews
wars, 125, 127, 142–3, 150, 164, Britain, 61, 97–8, 119
189, 190 and Christianity, 117, 132, 134
Western support for, 98, 143–4, exile, 109, 113–15
224, 229 heritage of, 182
See also under Zionism Holocaust, 119–23, 141, 183
Istanbul Islam, 44–5, 61, 78–9, 87, 90–1, 101,
German Empire, relations with, 118, 123, 131–3, 143, 183
51–2, 65 Israel, efforts to create, 123–7
as political center of Ottoman Nicene Creed, 116
Empire, 11–12, 15, 17, 26, 34, 56, Palestine, Jewish community in, 44,
58, 60, 62–5, 70, 81–2, 90–2, 95, 139–40
118, 138, 158, 196, 214 persecution of, 117–19, 183
Russian imperial obsession with, Russian Empire, 43–6, 97, 238n6
41–3, 73–4, 214 See also under Israel, Jerusalem
See also under Constantinople, jihad, 195–6, 204, 215–20, 224–5,
Ottoman Empire 234, 236
Italy, 12, 53, 89, 93, 119, 149 jizya, 78–9, 135
Ivan III, Tsar of Russia, 41 John, Prince, of England, 48
Iznik, 55, 138 Jordan, Hashemite Kingdom of
Izz al-Din al-Qassam, 125, 229 British involvement in, 71, 81, 84,
93, 97, 99, 153, 159, 161–2
al-Jabarti, 29 ISIL, threat from, 104
al-Jabiya, 80 Islamic history of, 81–2, 84
Jaffa, 28, 86, 95, 135 ruling family of, 155, 161–2, 169,
Jahiliyya (Age of Ignorance), 217, 227 171, 184–5, 188
Jamaat al-Jihad (Organization for wars against Israel, 125–6, 189
Holy War), 217 See also under Transjordan
jamlaka (royal republic), 186 Joseph, prophet, 154
INDEX 269
Judaea, 113–14 Labor Party, 142, 184

Judah, Kingdom of, 114 Laden, Osama bin, 198, 217–20
Judaism Landau, Edwin, 121, 126, 242n25
and Christianity, 117, 132, 134 Latakia, 84
and Islam, 44–5, 61, 78–9, 90–1, Latif, Mahmud Abdel, 175
118, 123, 131–3, 183 Latvia, 105
Western attitudes to, 98, 182 Lauder, Ronald S., 9
jumhuriyya, 186 Lausanne, Treaty of, 106
Jupiter, 113, 116, 134 Law of Return, 126
Justice and Development Party Lawrence, T. E., 94–5
(AKP), 230 Lazar, King of the Serbs, 12
League of Arab States (also known as
Kabah, 130 Arab League), 188, 209, 222
Kama Sutra, 21 League of Nations, 99, 102–3
al-Kamil, Ayyubid Sultan, 138 Lebanon
Karbala, 85 civil war, 164–5, 210
Karmal, Babrak, 213 ethnic makeup of, 79, 83–4, 164–5,
Kemal, Mustapha, 91, 206 178
Kenya, 219–20 French rule of, 28, 33–5, 61, 72, 83,
Khaled, King of Saudi Arabia, 200 88, 93, 99, 101, 103, 159
Khalifa ruling family, 2, 19, 161, 167 governance of, 4, 104, 153, 164–5
See also under Bahrain Greater Syria, province of, 81–3
Khan al-Khalili, 149 Israel, wars, 125, 143
khanqas, 26 Ottoman Empire, 95
Khomeini, Ayatollah Ruhollah, 200, US deployment in, 219
208–12, 213, 215 legitimacy
Kindertransport, 123 democratic, 177, 230
Kiev, 41, 118 Quranic, 154
King, Dr. Henry, 98 religious, 196, 199, 203, 215, 217, 219
King David Hotel, 125 of ruling elites, 141, 151, 169, 172
King-Crane Commission, 98 of state creation, 92, 103, 235
Kingdom of Heaven, 137 Lesseps, Ferdinand de, 16, 17
Kishinev, 118 Lewis, Professor Bernard, 91, 133
Kitchener, Lord Herbert, 23, 70 Libya
Kléber, General Jean-Baptiste, 30 Brother Leader, 162–3, 177, 186,
Klimt, Gustav, 9 189, 222
Kochba, Simon bar, 113, 115 coup, 162–3
Kosovo Polje, Battle of, 12, 58 independence, 159, 162
Kristallnacht, 122 Italian invasion of, 53, 79
Küçük Kaynarca, Treaty of, 42, 90 NATO intervention in, 3, 234
Kufa, 80, 85–6, 240n17 oil, 176
Kurds, 2, 4, 28, 78, 84, 88, 106, 212 post-Arab Spring, 4
Kut, Battle of, 73 Likud Party, 181, 184
Kuwait, 86, 161, 167, 196, 212, 218 Lithuania, 105, 123
See also under Sabah ruling family Litvinoff, Barnet, 116, 238n6
270 INDEX
London Mecca
as center of British Empire, 18–19, Holy City, 5, 56, 94, 114, 138, 179
20, 24, 39, 50, 53–4, 60, 63, 69, opposition to Prophet in, 81, 133
72–4, 88, 90, 93–4, 96–9, 102, pilgrimage to, 21, 78, 130, 135
104, 138, 148, 150, 202, 207 Prophet Muhammad, 134, 227
as center of modern United qibla, 131
Kingdom, 120, 168, 186, 224 sharif of, 94–5, 97
Houses of Parliament, 182 siege in, 195, 199–200, 213
See also under British Empire, Mecca, Grand Mosque of, 199–200, 213
United Kingdom Medina
Louis IX, King of France, 28 Holy City, 5, 56, 94, 130, 135, 138,
Louis XIV, King of France, 158, 161 179, 199
Louis-Napoleon (also known as Jewish tribes in, 132–3
Napoleon III), 31–2, 62 as political center, 81, 130
Lyautey, Marshal, 36 Prophet Muhammad, home of,
131–3, 227
MacCulloch, Professor Dairmuid, 116 Medina, Islamic University of, 197
Macedonia, 15 Mehmed III, Ottoman Sultan, 58
Mahan, Alfred Taylor, 75 Mehmed V, Ottoman Sultan, 65
al-Mahdi, Abbasid Caliph, 135 Mehmed the Conqueror, Ottoman
mahdi, 200 Sultan, 40–1
Mainz, 117 Meir, Golda, 183
Makhluf family, 187 Melilla, 36
Maktoum ruling family, 161 Men’s League for Opposing Women’s
See also under Trucial States, Suffrage, 24
United Arab Emirates Middle East
Maliki school, 79 Anglo-French carve-up of, 70–5,
Malta, 19, 71, 95 82–8, 92, 93–9, 101–6
mamluka, 186 democratic deficit in, 147–52,
Mamluks, 56, 138, 157–8 153–65, 167–80, 184–91, 221–34,
al-Mamun, Abbasid Caliph, 136, 235–6
155–6, 204–5 European imperialism in, 15–24,
Manama, 3 25–37, 41–4, 50–4, 60–5, 90–2
mandates, 70–4, 82–8, 92–9, 101–4 First World War in, 73, 94–5
al-Mansur, Abbasid Caliph, 86–7, 135 Freedom Agenda for, 219, 223
Maronite Christians, 33, 67, 72, 83 origins of the term Middle East,
marriages 74–5
royal marriages in Europe, 10, remaking of, 69–75, 82–4, 87–8,
39–41 89–92, 93–9
royal marriages in Middle East, United States involvement in, 2, 4,
196–7 61–2, 98, 125, 143, 159, 164, 168,
Marwan, Umayyad Caliph, 129 207, 211–20, 223, 229, 234
Masada, 113 See also under Arab Spring,
Maupassant, Guy de, 27, 31 democracy, individual countries
Maysaloun, 96 Midhat Pasha, 64
McMahon, Sir Henry, 94 mihna, 204–5
INDEX 271
Milestones, 227 hadith, 199, 219

military states, 57, 154–9, 160–5, hijra, 132, 227
172–80, 186–91, 231–6 Jews, relations with, 131–3
See also under coups Meccan opposition to, 130
Milvian Bridge, Battle of, 115 Night Journey, 134, 137
Mirza Hussein Shirazi, 203 Prophetic mission, 131
missionaries, 34, 62, 72 role in building Muslim
Mitterand, François, 229 communal identity, 77–8, 81,
Moldavia, 62 203–4
monarchies, 159–65, 167–72, 178–80, role model (Sunna), 154
186–91, 231, 235–6 Seal of the Prophets, 131
See also under dynasty succession (lack of) to, 42, 57, 102,
Mongols, 87 154, 157, 182, 203–4
Montenegro, 11, 105 Muhammad V, King of Morocco, 163,
Morocco 185
French rule, 36, 52, 74, 159, 163 Muhammad VI, King of Morocco,
Islam in, 157 185
Jewish community in, 118, 184 Muhammad Ali, Pasha of Egypt, 15,
ruling family of, 155, 169–70, 177, 22, 147, 196
185 Muhammad Ali, Shah of Iran, 206
Morris, Jan, 214 Muhammad Reza, Shah of Iran, 207
Morsi, President Muhammad, 3–4, mulk (monarchy), 154
156, 225, 230–4 Mumbai, 59
Mosaddeq, Muhammad, 173, 207 al-Muqrani, 32
Mosaic Law, 182 Murad I, Ottoman Sultan, 12, 58
Moscow, 4, 41–3, 176, 207, 211, 213–14, Muscat, 19, 56, 160
216, 234 Musha, 226
See also under Russian Empire, Muslim Brotherhood (al-Ikhwan
Russian Federation, Soviet al-Muslimin)
Union democratic mandate of, 3–4, 177,
Moses, 21, 43, 134, 182 225, 229–31
Moses Room, 182 origins of, 102, 150–1, 225–8
Mosul, 72, 84, 88 persecution of, 151, 156, 175, 187,
Mount Lebanon, 33–4, 72, 79, 83 210, 227–32
Moyne, Lord, 125 rise of, 142
Muawiya, Umayyad Caliph, 57, 81, al-Mutasim, Abbasid Caliph, 156–7
135, 154, 158, 172, 188, 204 al-Mutawakkil, Abbasid Caliph, 156,
Mubarak, Hosni, 3, 189, 221, 228, 205
230–1, 233 Mutazilism, 204–5
Muhammad, the Prophet
Christian negative view of, 28–9, Nadir tribe, 133
134 Nahayan ruling family, 161
Christians, relations with, 131–4 See also under Trucial States,
and democracy, 154, 182 United Arab Emirates
descent from, 36, 79, 85–6, 94, 163, al-Nakba, 110, 140, 180
169, 170, 205–6, 211 al-Naksa, 142
272 INDEX
Napoleon I Nicene Creed, 55, 115–16, 138

Egypt, invasion of, 15, 29–30 Nicholas I, Tsar of Russia, 44, 54, 62
First Consul, 30 Nicholas II, Tsar of Russia, 10, 39–41
imperial ambitions of, 29–30, 50–1, Nicolson, Sir Harold, 71
60, 72 Niemöller, Pastor Martin, 232
Napoleon III. See under Louis- Nightingale, Florence, 51
Napoleon Nile, Battle of, 29, 53
Nasir al-Din, Shah of Iran, 202 Nile, River, 16, 21, 27, 30, 80
al-Nasir Muhammad, Mamluk Noble Sanctuary, 127, 130, 138
Sultan, 158 See also under Haram al-Sharif,
Nasser, Gamal Abdel Jerusalem
background of, 149–51 Non-Aligned Movement, 174
Egypt, leader of, 142, 153, 156, 173, North Africa See under Africa
175–6, 184, 186, 191, 209, 228, North Atlantic Treaty Organization
232 (NATO), 3
foreign policy, 174 Nuqrashi, Mahmoud Fahmi, 226
Muslim Brotherhood, persecution Nuremberg Laws, 122, 139
of, 197–8, 226–7
popularity of, 151, 162–4, 173–7, Oberlin College, 98
189 October War, 110, 173, 189–90, 217
Six-Day War, 189–90 oil
Yemen, war in, 179–80, 210 in Bahrain, 167
National Assembly (France), 30 in Iran, 202, 206–7
National Guard (Saudi Arabia), 197, in Iraq, 71–2, 88, 176, 215, 218
211 in Kuwait, 218
National Liberation Front (Yemen), in Saudi Arabia, 86, 97, 167–8, 190,
180 198, 211, 215
National Liberation Party (Egypt), use of as political weapon, 144, 171,
151–2 189–91, 215, 224, 230
National Salvation Front (Egypt), 231 West, importance to, 2, 71–2, 88,
nationalism, 12, 19, 45, 91, 92, 96, 123 168–9, 171, 190, 224, 229
nation-states Olga, Queen of Greece, 40
formation of in Middle East, 69–75, Oman, 19, 161, 167, 171, 185
81–8, 89–92, 93–9, 101–6, 235 See also under Bu Said ruling
ideology of, 11–12, 82, 88–92 family
Nebuchadnezzar, 109 one-party state, 152, 154, 171, 175,
Negev desert, 150, 184 180, 227–8, 232
Neguib, Muhammad, 151, 175 Organization for Holy War. See under
Nehru, Jawaharlal, 174 Jamaat al-Jihad
Nelson, Admiral Horatio, 29 Organization of the Petroleum
Némirovsky, Irène, 122–3 Exporting Countries (OPEC), 168
Neo-Destour Party, 163, 177 Orthodox Christianity
Netanyahu, Binyamin, 143, 181, 184 Greek Orthodox, 43
Netherlands, 59, 118–19, 125 in Islamic world, 42–3, 61, 90
See also under Holland Russian Orthodox, 14, 40–1, 43, 46,
Nicaea, 55, 115–17, 138 61–3, 90
INDEX 273
Osman, founder of Ottoman Greater Syria, part of, 82, 84

Empire, 55 Islam, importance to, 130–1
Ottoman Empire Islam, province of caliphate, 133,
Armenians, 106, 120 135–6
Capitulations, 23, 60–2 Jewish community in, 44–5, 123–6,
debt crisis in, 18, 59, 63 139, 183
European ambitions in, 69–74, politics of religion in, 142–3
93–4, 102, 214, 235 refugees, 140–1, 190
First World War, 14, 73, 95 Right of Return, 141
German Empire, relations with, 51, Roman Empire, province of, 114
54, 65 UN Special Commission on, 125
Great Power adoption of religious Palestine Liberation Organization
minorities, 33–4, 42–3, 61–2, (PLO), 164, 189
91, 118 Panther warship, 52
Habsburg Empire, wars against, Paris
58–60 as cultural center, 16–17, 31
origins of, 55 First World War peace conferences
political reform in, 64, 91 in, 93, 95, 104–5
political structure of, 84, 155, 158 Middle Eastern ambitions, 24–6,
provinces of, 2, 11–12, 15, 17, 22, 26, 53–4, 72–4, 90, 97, 99, 102–4, 208
30, 35–7, 40–1, 44–5, 56, 92, 96–7, as political center of French
104, 109, 138–9, 178, 196, 225 Empire, 18, 27, 30, 33–4, 46,
Russian Empire, relations with, 52–4, 66, 88, 91, 103, 119
41–3, 60–3 Pasha, Nahhas, 148
Turkish Republic, 105–6, 230 Passover, 118, 127
See also under individual names Pearl Roundabout, 3, 170
of sultans, Istanbul, Ottoman Peel Commission, 140
ruling family People of the Book, 45, 123, 132–3
Ottoman ruling family, 55, 57–8 People’s Democratic Republic of
See also under Ottoman Empire Yemen (PDRY), 180
Ottoman Society for Union and People’s Republic of South Yemen
Progress (Young Turks), 64–5, 91 (PRSY), 180
Owen, Professor Roger, 188 Perlmann, Eliezer, 123
See also under Ben Yehuda
Pahlavi ruling family, 202, 206–8 Persia, 39, 56, 81
Pakistan, 214 See also under Iran
Palaestina, 114 Persian Gulf, 2, 19, 51, 56, 71, 80,
Pale of Settlement, 43, 118 84–6, 165, 178, 211
Palestine See also under Gulf region
Arab support for, 144, 190–1 Peru, 125
battle of narratives over, 109–12 Pesach. See under Passover
British takeover of, 93, 95, 97, 109, Petersburg, St., 14, 39, 41, 53–4, 90, 214
125, 139, 159 See also under Petrograd, Russian
Deir Yassin, 141 Empire
Gaza, siege of, 223, 233 Petrograd, 74, 97
Great Power ambitions in, 73, 98 Phalangists, 143
274 INDEX
Philip, Prince, 40 Qutb, Sayyid, 149, 198, 226–8

Philistines, 114
Picot, François Georges Rabin, Yitzhak, 127, 142
background, 69, 71–2 Rafah, 233
role in creating modern Middle rafidi, 211
East, 73–5, 81–4, 88, 93–4, 97, railways, 16, 51, 71
99, 104, 106, 139 Ramadan War, 110
pogroms, 44–5, 118, 123 Ras al-Tin Palace, 147
Poland, 9, 105, 214 al-Rashid, Abbasid Caliph, 155
Pontius Pilate, 116 Rashidi family, 196
populism, 151, 167, 174, 187 Rashidun Caliphs, 154
Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, 9 See also under Rightly Guided
Portuguese Empire, 2, 59 Caliphs
Potemkin, Prince of Russia, 41 Rasulid ruling family, 178
Prague, 9, 117 Reagan, Ronald, 185
presidents-for-life, 186, 223, 232 Redl, Colonel Alfred, 11
primogeniture, 17, 48, 57 refugees, 123, 141, 190
See also under dynasty, succession religion. See also under Christianity,
Princip, Gavrilo, 13 Islam, Judaism
Protestantism, 34, 40, 63, 85, 98 religious scholars, 167, 169, 203–5,
proxy wars, 1, 4, 164, 172, 210 209, 217
Public Debt Administration See also under ulama
(PDA), 63 Reshadieh, 65
Revolution
Qadiriyya Sufi order, 26 Arab Spring, 1–4, 221–34
al-Qadisiyya, Battle of, 84 Constitutional (Iran), 201
al-Qahtani, Muhammad ibn French, 29, 33, 46, 63, 72, 89–90,
Abdullah, 197, 200 101, 118, 158, 199
al-Qaida, 19, 73, 217, 220, 227 Industrial, 158
Qaitbay, Mamluk Sultan, 138 Islamic (Iran), 201–10, 213
Qajar dynasty, 202, 206 Russian, 39, 93–4, 98, 199, 207
Qandil, Hisham, 233 Revolutionary Command Council
Qasim, Abd al-Karim, 162 (RCC), 175
Qatar, 1, 161 Reynolds, Professor David, 89
See also under Thani ruling Reza Khan, Colonel (also known
family as Reza Pahlavi, Shah of Iran),
Qaynuqa tribe, 133 202, 206
Qays tribe, 80 Richard the Lion Heart, 28
qibla (direction of prayer), 114, 131 Rida, Rashid, 225
Qinnasrin, 82 Right of Return, 141
Queen Elizabeth, HMS, 71 Rightly Guided Caliphs, 57, 81, 154,
Quran, 29, 34, 78, 90, 132–4, 154, 182, 157, 203–4
196, 199, 204 See also under Rashidun Caliphs
Qurayzah tribe, 133 Rigoletto, 16
Qutb, Muhammad, 198 Riyadh, 196, 200, 215–16
INDEX 275
Roberts College, 98 Sadr City, 87

Roman Empire, 53, 80, 82, 109, Safad, 44
113–17, 123, 133 Safavid dynasty, 56, 86, 201–2,
Romania, 10, 11, 43, 45, 62, 90, 105 205–6
Romanov Empire, 93, 105, 118 Saffarid dynasty, 157
See also under Russian Empire Said, Edward, 148
Rothschild, Lionel de, 17 Said, Pasha of Egypt, 15–16
Royal Navy, 29, 71 Said, Sultan of Oman, 171, 185
Russian Empire Saladin, 28, 72, 96, 109, 137–8
Afghanistan, 39, 213 Salamish, Mamluk Sultan, 158
British Empire, relations with, Saleh, Ali Abdullah, 189
39–40, 46, 52, 63 San Remo, 93
Crimea, importance of, 41–2 Sanusi Sufi order, 162
Crimean War, 34, 46, 51, 53, 62–3, Sarajevo, 5, 9–13
214 Saud, King of Saudi Arabia,
First World War, 14, 65, 73–4, 93, 171
97–8 Saud, Muhammad ibn, 195–6
France, relations with, 39, 46 Saudi Arabia, Kingdom of
Iran, 202, 206–7 Arab Spring, crackdown on, 2–3,
Istanbul, imperial obsession with, 170, 221, 231, 233
40–3, 62, 73–4, 214 Britain, relations with, 160
Japan, war against, 39 coups in, 171, 177
Jews, treatment of, 43–6, 97, 238n6 economy of, 190, 198–9
New Rome, 37, 41, 74, 118 foundation of, 94, 97, 195–7
Orthodox Christianity, 14, 40–3, Ikhwan in, 197
46, 61–3, 90 inter-Arab rivalry, 1, 210
Ottoman Empire, relations with, Iran, 1, 210–11
41–3, 60–3 jihad in Afghanistan, support for,
Romanov ruling family, 10, 39–3, 215–16
46, 49, 61–2, 90 oil, 97, 160, 167, 190
See also under Moscow, Petersburg, Palestine Initiative, 190
St., Russian Federation, Soviet religious establishment in, 169, 203,
Union 205
Russian Federation, 41, 43, 234 religious opposition to, 195,
See also under Moscow, Russian 197–200, 213
Empire, Soviet Union religious-royal alliance, 79–80,
169, 195–7, 203, 205
Sabah ruling family, 161, 167, 218 Shi‘ism in, 86, 178, 211
See also under Kuwait Six-Day War, 179–80
Sabbahi, Hamdeen, 232 United States, alliance with, 215–16,
Sabila, Battle of, 197 218–20
Sabra refugee camp, 143 Wahhabism, 79–80, 195–7, 205
Sad ibn Muadh, 133 Yemen, war in, 178–80
Sadat, Anwar, 150, 189–90, 209, See also under names of kings, Saudi
217, 228 ruling family
276 INDEX
Saudi ruling family, 2–3, 57, 79–80, sharia (religious law), 197, 207
94, 97, 160, 170, 195–200, 203, Sharon, Ariel, 143
205, 211, 213, 215–16, 219–20 Shatila refugee camp, 143
See also under Saudi Arabia and Shepheards’ British Hotel, 21
names of kings Shi‘ism
Saul, prophet, 154 Ashura, 211
SAVAK, 207 Azali branch of, 206
Sawad, 84, 86 in Bahrain, 85, 178
Sazanov, Sergei, 73 Hidden Imam, 79
Schindler, Oskar, 123 in Iran, 86, 201, 203–12
Schlieffen Plan, 14 in Iraq, 4, 85, 87–8
schools Karbala, 85
German technical schools, 49–50 in Lebanon, 83, 164, 178
foreign-run schools in Middle East, mahdi, 200
16, 21, 23, 33 origins of, 79, 85, 87, 111, 211
missionary schools, 34, 62, 72 religious scholars and power, 203–8
religious schools, 30, 79 in Saudi Arabia, 86, 178, 211
Secessionist School, 123, 159, 207, sub-groups within, 79
215–16 Sunni-Shi‘i political tensions, 1, 79,
Second World War, 9 195, 210
sectarianism, 34, 83, 88, 103–4, 164–5, in Syria, 84
210–12 in Yemen, 178, 211
secularism, 101–2, 119, 142, 172, 179, shirk (idolatry), 131
205–7, 210, 225, 228, 230–1, 233 Shoah, 120
seder, 118 See also under Holocaust
Selim I, Ottoman Sultan, 56, 158 shura (consultation), 154
Selim II, Ottoman Sultan, 60–1 Sidon, 83
Sephardim, 118–19, 184 silkworms, 33–4, 72
Serageldin, Samia, 173 Sinai peninsula, 43, 147, 189–90, 234
Serbia, 11–14, 62, 105 el-Sisi, Abdel Fattah, 156, 232, 234
Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes, Kingdom Six-Day War, 109, 127, 142, 179, 189,
of, 105 215
Sevastopol, 41 Sofia, Byzantine Princess, 41
Seveners (Shi‘ism), 79 soldier-states. See under military
Sèvres states
states created by, 101–6 Solomon, prophet and king, 113, 134,
Sykes-Picot Agreement, likeness 138, 154
to, 93–7 Sophie, Archduchess, 9–11, 13, 221
Treaty of, 93, 99, 101 Soviet Union
sexual impotency, 222 Afghanistan, 213–15, 219
Shafi school, 79 Cold War, 168, 214
Shafiq, Ahmad, 225, 232 Crimea, 41
al-Sham, 82 Egypt, alliance with, 174, 177
See also under Greater Syria Glasnost, 212
Shamir, Yitzhak, 125 Iraq, alliance with, 211–12
INDEX 277
Israel, recognition of, 44, 125 in Saudi Arabia, 179, 200, 210–11
People’s Democratic Republic of Sunni-Shi‘i split in Iraq, 85, 88,
Yemen (PDRY), alliance with, 210–12
180 in Syria, 84
Second World War, 207, 216 in Yemen, 178
Stalingrad, Battle of, 216 Sweden, 123, 125
Syria, alliance with, 176 Sykes, Lady Jessica, 69
See also under Moscow, Russian Sykes, Sir Mark, 69–75, 81, 106
Empire, Russian Federation Sykes, Sir Tatton, 69
Spain, 36, 52, 59, 74, 81, 117–18, 123, Sykes-Picot Agreement, 73–5, 82–4,
157 88, 93–9, 104, 139
Speyer, 117 Syria, Arab Republic of
spheres of influence, 46, 53, 61, 84 Arab Spring, wars after, 1–4, 35,
Sri Lanka, 96 104, 212, 222
stability Baath Party, 177, 211
as political strategy in the Middle creation of, 71–5, 81–4, 94–6, 99,
East, 102, 169, 185, 223–4, 229, 101, 103–4, 153, 159, 172
231, 235 independence of, 163
Stalin, Josef, 42, 216 Israel, wars against, 125–6, 189
Stalingrad, Battle of, 216 military state, 163–4, 186–8
Stern Gang, 125 Muslim Brotherhood, persecution
succession, 57–8, 129, 154, 172, 186, of, 187, 228
188, 205 presidential succession, 186
See also under dynasty, Russia, alliance with, 43, 176, 211,
primogeniture 234
Suez Canal United Arab Republic, 163–4, 176,
construction of, 15–16, 147 179
geopolitics of, 19–20, 51, 71, 190 See also under al-Asad family,
Ismailiyya, 148, 225 Damascus, Greater Syria
purchase of by British, 17 Syria, Greater. See under Greater Syria
war over, 1956, 18, 173, 179 Syrians, 2–3, 186, 234
Suez War, 18, 173, 179
Sufis/Sufism, 26, 79, 162, 195 al-Tabari, Muhammad ibn Jarir,
Suite Française, 122 111–12
Suleyman the Magnificent, Ottoman Tahirid dynasty, 157
Sultan, 138 takfir (excommunication), 217
Sultan Osman I, 65 Talal, King of Jordan, 171, 185
Sunna, 154 Taliban, 216
Sunnism Talmud, 114
in Lebanon, 83, 164 Tamarrod Movement, 231
relationship to power, 86–7, 201, Tangier, 52
203–5 Tanzania, 219–20
religious scholars of, 203–6 Tawfiq, Khedive of Egypt, 18, 22
religious schools of, 79 tawhid (unity of God), 134, 196
sectarianism, 1 Tehran, 200–13
278 INDEX
Tel Aviv, 125, 142, 233 Umayyad dynasty

Tell al-Kabir, Battle of, 19 dynasty, introduction of, 57,
Temple Mount, 113–27, 143 154–5, 188
See also under Jerusalem era in power, 81, 87
Thani ruling family, 161 fall of, 80, 82, 86
See also under Qatar Greater Syria, importance of, 81,
theocracy, 201 135
Tiberias, 44 Jerusalem, importance of, 130–1,
Tigris, River, 86 135
Tito, Marshal, 174 military, alliance with, 57, 155
Titus, 109, 113 one-party state, 171
tobacco concession, 202–3 rebellions against, 85, 87, 129–30,
Toledo, 118 211
Torah, 45 See also under names of caliphs
Torquemada, Tomás de, 117 United Arab Emirates, 2–3, 19, 161,
Tower of London, 120 231, 233
Transjordan, 84, 93, 97, 125, 162 See also under Trucial States
See also under Jordan, Hashemite United Arab Republic, 163, 176, 179
Kingdom of United Kingdom, 3, 78, 119, 168, 212
transnationalism, 12 See also under British Empire,
tribe, 27, 36, 80–1, 87, 133, 179, 196, London
240n9 United Nations, 3, 125, 141–3, 162,
trinity, 134 234
Triple Alliance, 53 United States of America
Tripoli, Lebanon, 28, 83 Afghanistan, 214
Tripoli, Libya, 56 aid, 4, 207, 234
Tripolitania, 159 allies in Middle East, 98, 125, 143,
Trucial States, 19, 161 168, 207, 211–13, 215–20, 223,
See also under United Arab 229
Emirates Camp David Accords, 190
Truman, Harry S., 185 Cold War, 125, 168, 159, 214, 219
Tulun, Ahmad ibn, 157 Desert Storm, 212, 218
Tunisia Eisenhower Doctrine, 177, 219
under French rule, 35–6, 74, 159 First World War, 73, 93–4
Islam, 157–8 Freedom Agenda, 223
post-independence, 163, 177, 186, Iraq, 212
221, 225, 228–9 Lebanon, 164
Turkish Republic, 55, 72–3, 81–2, Libya, military intervention in, 3,
91–2, 106, 158, 228 234
Turkomen, 84 missionaries from, 61–2
Twelvers (Shi‘ism), 79 presidential terms, 185
Tyre, 28, 83 al-Qaida attacks on, 219–20
See also under Washington
Ukraine, 9, 41 Upper Egypt, 149–50, 226
ulama, 203 Urabi, Ahmad, 18–19
See also under religious scholars Urban II, Pope, 28
INDEX 279
Urban, Franz, 9, 13 Wilhelm II, Kaiser, 10, 46–54, 65, 71,

Uruguay, 125 95
USS Cole, 220 See also under German Empire
al-Utaybi, Juhayman ibn Muhammad, Wilson, Colonel Arnold, 87–8
197–200 Wilson, Woodrow, 98, 104
Winton, Sir Nicholas, 123
Verdi, Giuseppe, 16 Woman in Gold, 9
Versailles, Treaty of, 93, 104 World Exhibition, 16
Victoria, Princess Royal, 47 World Food Program (WFP), 2
Victoria, Queen of England, 10, 40, 47 Worms, 117
Vienna, 9, 11–14, 42, 45, 60
vilayets (provinces), 82 Yaman (tribe), 80
Yathrib, 132
Wafd Party, 95, 148, 175 Yazid I, Umayyad Caliph, 57, 85, 154
Wahhabism, 79, 195–7, 199, 205 Yemen
Wallachia, 62 Arab Spring, wars after, 4, 211
waqf (religious endowment), 30, 226 British rule of, 19, 56, 178
War of Independence (Israel), 110 military republic, 189
warm-water ports, 41, 176, 202 proxy war in, 178–80, 210, 212
wars. See under names of wars and Shi‘ism in, 178, 210–11
countries involved Zaydi ruling family, 178–9, 210
Washington, 98, 168, 171, 207, 211–12, Yemen Arab Republic, 179
214–16, 218, 223, 229, 234 Yishuv, 124, 183
See also under United States of Yom Kippur War, 110
America Young Bosnia, 13
wasta (middle), 171 Young Turks, 64–5, 91
Waterloo, Battle of, 51 Yugoslavia, 125, 174
al-Wathiq, Abbasid Caliph, 156
Weapons of Mass Destruction Zaghlul, Sad, 95
(WMD), 105, 212, 223 Zamalek, 16, 21
Weizmann, Chaim, 98, 183 Zaydi ruling family, 178–9, 210
Western Wall, 113, 127 Zionism, 10, 45, 97–8, 119, 123–5,
Westminster, Palace of, 69 139–43, 181
wheat, 222 Zola, Émile, 31
wilayas (provinces), 82 al-Zubayr, Abdullah ibn, 130

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M. E.

WHAT’S REALLY GOING ON

Ali Shari’ati and the Shaping of Political Islam in Iran

Introduction Lost in the Labyrinth: What’s Really Going

Part I The Tangled Web: Why the Great Powers

Part II Too Many Straight Lines on the Map: Where,

10 From Sykes-Picot to the Treaty of Sèvres: Betrayals,

Part III All or Nothing: Why All Roads

Part IV Kings, Colonels, and Coups: Why There

Part V The Sacred Versus the Secular:

I would like to thank everyone who helped me to see this through.

Lost in the Labyrinth:

Palestinians chugs along, as far from resolution as it was back in 1948

The Tangled Web: Why the

The man’s name was Franz Urban.

a common religion draw on their shared historical experience and come

Within weeks, Europe was at war.

The British Empire and

The sovereign of Egypt had grand ambitions.

Inspired by a visit to France in 1867 for the World Exhibition, Ismail

Buying the khedive’s shares was a triumph for Disraeli.

have no selfish interests in Egypt, to be acting solely against a military

For London, victory in Egypt secured a key strategic objective.

The British, by contrast, wanted all Egyptians to be subject to the same

As a proud people with a civilization stretching seven millennia, the

integrated into the world economy on terms unfavorable to Egypt. The

The French Empire and

The efforts to colonize Algeria began in earnest with the arrival of

its people, whom they considered idolaters, worshipping Muhammad as

troops to be heavily defeated in the coastal city of Acre by the Ottomans

The colonization of Algeria was an old-fashioned land-grab. In 1840,

As the nineteenth century progressed, France’s influence in the Arab

Ottoman system.16 Often these schools were established in response to

Tunisia was one such place.

The conference at Algeciras was evidence of the Entente Cordiale

The Russian Empire

In the summer of 1907, Britain and Russia signed a cooperation treaty.

That geopolitical connection between Crimea and Russia dates back to

discrimination. Even worse, in 1827, under Nicholas I (r. 1825–55),

There had always been a Jewish presence in Palestine, especially in the

The German Empire and

craving for understanding and he could be cruel to the point of sadistic.

schools), and Technische Hochschulen (technical academies), Germany

He might have been confident about Germany’s ability to fight France.

The Ottoman Empire:

And so it continued. This was a conquest state whose rulers were

survival-of-the-fittest for royal sons. Whoever was strong enough to seize

scored no significant victories. They conquered no new territory. They

The Ottoman Empire possessed a huge internal market and, through

subjects traveling in Ottoman lands were liable to French rather than

Too Many Straight Lines on

T he Englishman was Sir Mark Sykes. The Frenchman was François

Comité de l’Asie Française, and came to the negotiations in London know-

Officially, London and Paris did it as a pre-emptive strike against

second thought for the long-term implications. In Europe’s corridors of

The Arab World before

joined forces with a little-known family in eighteenth-century Arabia

future. France’s principal aim in creating Lebanon was to protect France’s

While Basra—the soldiers’ city—was settled by tribe, Baghdad—the royal

a Sunni minority in Baghdad continuously exercised power over a Shi‘i

The Remaking of the

The nation-state was a European idea.

or a land. In the Arab provinces, the idea of nationalism gained traction